Homework
by RavenDove84
Summary: A series of connected stories exploring the relationships between Bobby, Remy, Rogue, and Logan. Once upon a time, this was a one shot. Do you see what reviews can accomplish?
1. Chapter 1

**Author Notes: Obviously, I own nothing. I'm also new to ffnet. I'm attempting to write a much larger piece, and this scene popped into my head. It's in keeping with the universe I'm spinning elsewhere, but I figured it can stand alone and will serve as my literary introduction to the site. **

**Er. Enjoy?**

Normally, Robert Drake was as cool and calm as his other name, his working name.

Yet, a bare month into his first year of college, as he stared down at the numbers before him, he felt that cool slipping away rapidly. Accounting had seemed like such a sensible major in August when he filled out his class schedule. Now, as numbers, credits and debits swam before his eyes on college ruled notebook paper, he was having second thoughts.

The sound of laminated cardboard rustling against each other from a desk not too far away from where Bobby failed at comprehending Business Math 101, provided both a welcome distraction and another problem.

"Do you have to do that?" He snapped, delighted when the card shuffling paused. "Some of us are trying to study."

Bobby wasn't sure what he thought of the older man. On the one hand, he was a self proclaimed thief and scoundrel, brought to Xavier's months ago through his shady connections to Logan. On the other hand, Rogue threatened to drain him dry if he didn't at least try to get along with her new boyfriend. Ever since their attempt at a romantic relationship disintegrated around them, they'd discovered that an intense friendship was much more suited. He couldn't deny that Rogue had been happier, more extroverted and content since spending more time with the annoying Cajun.

Didn't mean he had to trust the guy though.

The other man made a show of looking around the library carefully, gestures and eyebrows exaggerated before he commented.

"Looks like just the two of us, homme. Wasn't aware the snowflake was in the habit of speaking in plural." He resumed shuffling his ever present playing cards once again, watching Bobby with raised brows and an unreadable expression.

Bobby sputtered a moment before breaking eye contact to look at his textbook again.

"Yeah well, this is hard enough without that sound all the time, ok?"

It wasn't jealousy - at least, not any sort of jealousy over Rogue that set Bobby on edge around the man. He's moved on, found his own relationship, and glad that she'd found someone who made her happy. But the guy was a lot older than his friend - hell, he'd known Logan more'n a dozen years ago. That made him a lot older. And he was a flirt - Bobby was certain that when the older (ancient) man grew bored of his conquest over the untouchable girl, he'd move on and Bobby'd wind up holding his friend's hand through a broken heart.

Bobby hadn't been aware of the silence until Remy broke it.

"Que-ce que vous fait, that's heated your icy temper?" A few deft clicks of his mouse, and Remy's computer screen went blank before he rose to peer over Bobby's shoulder. "Accounting math?"

Without waiting for confirmation, the lanky man pulls a chair beside Bobby and studies the problem more closely.

"Ici. You're forgetting to balance this transaction, open another account to keep track of . . . Que?"

"You understand accounting?" Bobby can't keep the disbelief out of his voice. Remy grins, impishly in return.

"One t'ing this t'ief learnt long ago." He leans back in the chair, hands behind his head as he stares at the ceiling. "You can bypass an alarm, charm a guard, crack a safe. . . Steal as much as you want. But if you can't find a legitimate way to account for the money on paper? That's when you get caught, for true."

Bobby shakes his head, pencil scribbling across the paper as he tries the advice, not as surprised as he would have been moments ago when the numbers add up properly.

The next several problems make more sense under the older man's tutelage, and Bobby begins to actually enjoy his homework. Somewhere he wonders if it would have made sense if his teacher cracked as many jokes while explain the process in the first place.

Another silence descends sometime later while he's working on the last problem, sense of accomplishment as the numbers line up perfectly with the answer in the back of the text. About to whoop for joy at completion, the expression on his companion's face steals it away. With it, the realization dawns that he'd just enjoyed some hours worth in his company.

"Looks like I'll be staying' around for a while. If you need help again, jus' ask, oui?"

All joking is aside on his expression, in his voice. Red on black eyes taking on an intensity Bobby had until this moment associated with the battlefield or training sessions in the Danger Room. He turns to see what's captured the other man's gaze, looking out the large windows of the library and smiling.

Rogue, barefoot, wearing black sweatpants, a white tank top and short black gloves is sparring in the yard with Wolverine. She's flushed, sweating, with a fierce joy lighting her features as she holds her own against her mentor.

"Has he threatened to shish kabob you yet?" Bobby asks, glancing at the other man through the corner of his eye while he gathers up his books.

"Qui? Monsieur Claws?" The other man's voice is distracted, eyes watching every movement of the girl outside.

"Yeah. Logan's fiercely protective of that girl. When we were dating, he threatened to chop me up if I ever broke her heart."

That snaps Remy's attention away from the window, and back on Bobby. The younger man isn't sure if he likes the fact that the same intensity remains, or that Remy's now flipping a card between his fingers.

"You used to date her?"

Trying for nonchalance, Bobby waves his hand dismissively.

"Old news. We're better friends. Just saying." Bobby stands, books under one arm and looks out the window again before speaking. "If you do break her heart? I'll help him."

Whistling off tune to himself, Bobby heads towards the doors of the library, leaving an intense, stunned Cajun behind.

He wasn't such a bad guy after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Note: I didn't plan this story at all, but see. . . I've been reading **aiRo25writes **Whispers, and a few of her other works for a while now. And aiRo25 asked me to continue this. So. Er. Yeah. Here. Cause after your review? I finally confessed to my mother that I've been writing fanfiction again because I had to tell _someone. _**

**I own a Wolverine Coffee mug. . . but still don't own Marvel.**

Remy Lebeau was contemplating a way out. Fingers clicking deftly against the mansion's library keyboard - one of several high end computers for students' use - he mused about his next location. Permenancy, staying in one place - well, it wasn't something he did. Besides, Montreal was nice this time of year. He could even drive up.

The only other occupant of the room swore, causing Remy to look up, curiously. When no other sound was forthcoming, he instead pulled out a deck of cards, musing on the list of festivals for the month in Montreal.

The problem, of course, wasn't actually the leaving. He wasn't required to stay. They'd offered him a spot on the team, but not a position on the staff. Even he couldn't blame them for that. The kind of skills he possessed weren't the kind that normally showed up in a school's curriculum. Lock Picking 101 or Intro to B&E weren't the type of course the school could boast of offering.

"Do you have to do that?" Remy stopped the motion of his hands, focusing on the sandy blonde boy hunched irritably over his textbooks. "Some of us are trying to study."

What was the kid's name? Cold, freeze, ice, snow? boy Logan usually called on to help settle the kids down. The one Rogue was always asking him to give a chance. Popcicle? Icecube? Something to do with the manifestation of cold and ice the boy possessed.

"Looks like just the two of us, homme. Wasn't aware the snowflake was in the habit of speaking in plural." He shuffled the cards again. Rogue. Marie. The reason leaving would be difficult if not impossible. The only way to avoid a scene with her when he left would be to sneak out, and the girl deserved better than him leaving like. . . Well, a thief in the night.

Probably deserved better than a thief, anyway.

Scowling at the computer screen and the problems, rather than solutions, the list of locations now presented, he clicks the windows closed and turns his mind to a distraction.

"Que-ce que vous fait, that's heated your icy temper?" Covering the distance between them easily, he peers at the boy's texts and notes, sprawled haphazardly across a large table. "Accounting math?"

She did ask him to try and be friends with the boy. Until he made a descision about leaving, he'd try things her way. Just for now, until he decided.

Math was easier.

"Ici. You're forgetting to balance this transaction, open another account to keep track of . . . Que?" The problems were simple enough, and he spots the mistake immediately.

"You understand accounting?" The kid scoffs, disbelief etched on young features. Remy can't help the smile.

"One t'ing this t'ief learnt long ago." He leans back in the chair, hands behind his head as he stares at the ceiling. "You can bypass an alarm, charm a guard, crack a safe. . . Steal as much as you want. But if you can't find a legitimate way to account for the money on paper? That's when you get caught, for true."

He only half watches when the boy tries again, with the extra account, keeping his eyes somewhere in the past instead. His father had taught him to manage the books, when he was much younger than the ice cube was now. How long ago was that?

"Hey, it worked!"

"Course it did." Remy's got the cards in hand again, almost without noticing the action. The boy's going so far as to check his answer against the one printed in the back of the text book, as if he can't believe Remy's advice, or can't believe his own math. "Try the next one."

An hour slips by, two. He walks Bobby (name's scrawled on the back cover of the textbook) through the math the same way his father had, years before. Before long, he's forgotten his earlier problem, indescision. For a few hours, there's only math, T-accounts, and a surprisingly agile mind willing to learn. He's almost enjoying himself.

Movement outside the window catches his attention. He's about to wave to Logan when a second figure joins his friend on the lawn.

The black sweatpants are his, which should make him feel claustaphobic, her wearing his clothing as though she has every right to them. The leather gloves she wears are the ones he gave her months ago. He didn't know she still had them. Her brown and white hair is pulled back in a ruthless ponytail, and his fingers itch to let down, see it hang as free and wild as she was.

Instead, he shuffles the cards, watching.

Any other woman, previous woman, and he'd be watching the way the worn white tank top is nearly seethrough, red sports bra vibrant through fabric that's seen too many washes. Or the flexibility with which she moves, dodging and bending to avoid the man's attacks, wriggling or flipping out of holds. He'd be appreciating her youth, her young ripe body or the energy with which she moved.

Instead, he's captivated by her bare feet and bare arms. Pale, bare skin she normally guarded so fiercely for both her own protection and for those around her. Soft, supple skin she had to concentrate in order to render harmless.

Skin she trusted him to touch.

Trusted. Him. Merde.

Bobby's moving around in his periphrial vision, and Remy knows he's made a descision.

"Looks like I'll be staying' around for a while. If you need help again, jus' ask, oui?" He might even talk to Stormy about filling the ever elusive maths teacher position. Proffeseur

Lebeau had a decent ring to it.

"Has he threatened to shish ka bob you yet?"

He doesn't take his eyes from the window when Bobby speaks, had almost forgotten the kid was there.

"Qui? Monsieur Claws?" Who else? But he and Logan were good, what would the other man have to threaten him about?

"Yeah. Logan's fiercely protective of that girl. When we were dating, he threatened to chop me up if I ever broke her ."

That snaps Remy's attention away from the window, and back on Bobby. Dated? His Rogue? Was this boy going to try and win her back? He hoped not - the kid couldn't help him get that teaching position if Remy had to kill him first.

"You used to date her?"

But the kid nearly rolls his eyes as if dismissing a ridiculous idea.

"Old news. We're better friends. Just saying." Bobby stands, books under one arm and looks out the window again before speaking. "If you do break her heart? I'll help him."

Remy's eyes are already back at the window as the boy leaves. He waits until he can hear the doors click shut before he answers.

"Homme - she gonna break mine first."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I am precisely twelve cards short of owning a complete set of the 1990 Marvel Collector Cards – including the Wolverine Hologram. I do not, however, own Marvel. **

**This, by the way, is outside while Bobby and Remy are. . . bonding. **

He leans out of the way of her fist, catching her wrist to use her own momentum to tug her forward and past him.

"So, you and gumbo, huh?"

She recovers quickly, turning a stumble into a turn, using the weight of the turn to land a hit to his ribs. He absorbs the blow, heel of his hand catching her across the jaw. This time, when she stumbles, it's away from him.

"Yeah." She looks at him; eyebrows arched high over vibrant green eyes. "You gonna bring up the age difference too?"

"I remember when he was about your age." He comes at her, aiming high, then low with fists that don't find their target. Backing up slowly, she manages to duck under or twist away from each blow. "That was a long time ago, kid."

"That's kinda my point." Her next dodge becomes a turn, and she's dancing behind him, an elbow to his kidney and a low kick to the back of his knee. "I remember when he was my age too. Remember it from your perspective, and from his."

He's on one knee, facing her.

"My experiences – the ones I remember close enough to say I lived them, and the age of my body don't exactly match up."

For a moment, his vision superimposes over the sassy woman in front of him the image of a much younger girl. A terrified, naïve little girl without white streaks, burying her fear in stubbornness to sass her way into his pickup and eating his jerky. The thought of his bourbon swilling, card hustling, trouble seeking, lady charmer, occasional friend touching that little gloved girl in the pickup etches disapproval into Logan's expression.

When he rises, it's in a lunge intended to take her down by superior weight, not skill. But she's ready for him, dropping to her back as her legs come up, feet catching his stomach to throw him beyond his target. Frowning, she shifts into a crouch that keeps her low to the ground, watching as he straightens from the heap he'd landed in.

"I thought you were my friend, not my father."

When he spoke the words to her initially, she had been seeking permission to carry out momentous decision that turned out to be almost for nothing as the Cure wore off anyway. Somehow, she's sure, in a bone-certain, blood-positive type of surety, that the decision to twine her future with the Cajun's would prove to be much larger, more permanent.

She could use a friend's support with a decision like that, hoped she'd find it in her mentor. Bobby wouldn't even give him a chance, and even Kitty managed to be strangely cold on the subject. Yet this man, this relationship, made her feel more alive, more like herself, and more calm than anything she'd felt since her powers manifested. Just as this place – this haven for mutants called Xavier's, was more of a home than anything she'd tried to find, and she was tiring of defending her choice to her mutant family.

"I'm not forbidding you from seeing the guy. I'm expressing concern."

The two fall into circling each other, the last of summer grass soft and spongy under bare feet. Each watching the other's defense carefully, weighing options before one will attack the other. The four times a week sparring hasn't been back in effect for long, and she's proud to note she'd picked up a few extra skills during the summer's chaos.

"Friends can express concern."

This time, when he takes a swing at her, she wraps gloved hands around his forearm, head down to slide the bare skin of her cheek against the bare skin of his fist. She makes a mental pull, and blinks as her perception shifts. Familiar as it is to use his powers, Logan's enhanced senses and reflexes take blinking moments to adjust to. She can feel more than explain his reluctant approval, silent admission he won't vocalize of her boyfriend's treatment of her.

Logan perceives the tug as light, and shakes off the characteristic lightheadedness that marks the use of her powers. Using her grip on his wrist as leverage, he maneuvers to pin both her hands behind her back, immobilizing her with her back to his chest.

"He'll run." He shifts their stance, offering her a view into the library windows they're fighting before. Inside, Remy is focused, explaining something to Rogue's ex-boyfriend turn best friend. "If it gets too real, he'll run."

"I know." The words are a whisper, and he can feel her body softening, tension draining from her as she focuses on the scene inside. "And when he does, I'll bring him back."

Her control isn't perfect yet, and the tall, lanky man inside has a gift for distracting her focus, making her tenuous control over absorption all the more difficult to maintain when he's near. She's been picking up snippets of his thoughts on leaving for days now – and the reasons he won't admit to himself.

A brief jerk of her arms proves his grip is secure, and she won't break free through strength.

In spite of the knowledge, she hasn't spoken to him about it, worried he'd either stop the touches, caresses and breathtaking kisses she's become addicted to, or spook and run that much sooner. Instead, quietly, she keeps a duffle bag packed and ready in her closet for the moment he disappears.

Boneless, she leans into Logan's grip, trusting him to take her weight and keep her upright as she closes her eyes to better her focus. Warmth of his skin against hers as he speaks.

"If he hurts you. . ."

"You can have what's left of him."

There's steel in her voice that makes him smile. The frightened little girl who had once sobbed on Ellis Island had grown up at some point. The memories and psyches she'd absorbed along the way may have sped the process, but the strength was all her own. Strength sharpened by too many traumas, tempered by love.

"He's good for you, Stripes. We can all see that. But you need to know what you're getting into." He shifts his grip, lulled by the fact she isn't struggling. "Gambit's not safe like the icecube – he isn't tamed." He hesitates, he really doesn't want to touch the next subject, but it has to be said. "He'll push all your boundaries, won't respect your limits."

Rogue wants to laugh, could he be anymore vague about the physical aspects? Instead, she opens her eyes, red lip twitching when bone claws slide out of her hands and into Logan's abdomen, the stab enough of a shock that he pushes her forward when he releases his hold.

"I need to be pushed." She admits, well away from him, watching surprise and pride war on his features as wounds close under the damaged, bloodied tanktop he wears. "I stagnated with Bobby – figured out how to protect others from myself, but not control."

"I didn't even feel the drain. Your earlier touch couldn't have taken the claws." He's staring at her hands, metal slicing through his own knuckles in response to seeing the bone he doesn't remember having.

"Control, Logan. A slow, focused drain can take only what I need it to. What I want it to." Her hands come up, retracting the sharpened claws back into her hands with a twitch of muscles. "He taught me that. The patience needed to pull a heist undetected."

"Part of the heist is getting away clean." One eyebrow is high, and the claws are gone as a cigar materializes in his hand, hidden somewhere she still doesn't know. But the cigar means the session's over.

Rogue hesitates, hands on her hips as she angles to meet the thief's eyes through the window. Are they talking about her mutation still? Or about the assumption the thief will return to form, walk away once the infamous Untouchable is nothing more than another conquest? The intensity of red on black isn't dampened by the weather proof glass, nor by the distance between them. The darkened library casts his face in shadow even while she stands in sunlight. She smells the sharp sulfur of a match before rich tobacco fills the air. With effort, she breaks away from the glowing gaze, facing her partner.

The eyes that meet hers are expectant, sharp. He's waiting for a certain answer, certain she'll figure it out. Another test, like the early practices before she could hold her own against him, when he'd quiz her on her choice of moves. Brow furrowed, she glances back to the window, finding the library empty.

Gone, like he was never there, like a thief. One day, he would run. When she got too close, when he convinced himself this was too good to hold onto, he'd run. And she'd follow, she'd follow because. . . smiling, she turns back to Logan, eyes sparkling.

"But the best part of the heist is keeping the prize."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author Note: I own one of those funky 7 - 11 promotional cups for the Wolverine movie with Remy on it. Sadly, this does not mean I own anything Marvel related. Sigh.**

He slips down the hallway without sound, feet skipping loose floorboards out of habit. A nondescript, wooden door identical to every door around it, and he stops, trying the smooth, round handle.

Locked.

Flash of a grin and a tool appears in his hand. Barely a moment's work before a click that sounds too loud in the silent hall. A routine check to ensure he's undetected, and the man disappears into the room, door closing soft behind him, he remembers to lock it from the inside.

It's not the first time he's snuck in. Won't be the last.

Once, in what feels like another life, a woman explained to him that a bedroom's décor expressed the inhabitant's personality more clearly than any other room. In a boarding school such as this, it was more likely to be true. Students had only one place to express themselves through decoration and furnishing, one space to make their own for however long they stayed.

In that case, someone who didn't know better would assume this room was occupied by a number of roommates. Posters slapped haphazardly on the walls depict everything from current pop bands, to ballet dancers, the current sensational soccer player to sickening meant-for-the-office inspirational, and reproduction prints of art he's personally had his hands on. An eclectic cd collection on the bookshelf is arranged alphabetically, placing Garth Brooks next to the Band, Neil Young beside Rob Zombie.

Leather duster rustling now when he moves, Remy ignores the signs of clashing personalities and focuses his gaze on the photos that scatter the corkboard on the back of the door. Most are posed shots, students and teachers alike smiling at the camera. Only two are candid, centered on the board.

The first is reminiscent of the view he'd had through the library window not too long ago. The girl is sparring with her mentor, the older man pushed far enough that his metal claws are out as the camera captures her mid – kick. A bloodied scrap of fabric is tacked next to the photo, and though morbid, he supposes the first time she drew blood on the man who taught her to fight was enough of an accomplishment to keep a trophy.

The second photo makes him frown, even as his fingers touch it gently. She's wearing faded jeans and a black tshirt, bare fingers of one hand curled in his hair, a smile that makes his heart clench lighting her features. The photo image of him has his hands around her narrow waist, holding her close as he leans into her. From memory, he can recall the kiss that follows, the first time he kissed her deliberately. Kissed her just to taste her lips. Kissed her to express his feelings in that instant.

He hadn't been aware of a camera, hadn't known someone had captured that perfect moment until now.

Beside their photo, a playing card is tacked. Creased, worn around the edges, it's the queen of hearts he offered her not long after they first met. His frown tugs at the corners, ghost of a smile when he turns from the door, intending to head for the window. He's almost there when he stops.

Her closet is open.

He could believe that she'd left the door ajar when gathering clothing to wear after her shower. Could believe that she forgot to close it as she headed downstairs for her before bed snack.

But she'd remembered to lock her door, and the nightclothes she would have changed into wouldn't have come from the closet. Not that he's memorized her habits and patterns.

He opens the door more, peering into the closet that's as chaotically arranged as the décor. Priliminary look says nothing's out of place. Not that he's memorized where each item in her room belongs. A second, closer look, reveals the dufflebag.

Theives are, by nature, curious. It's the quality that draws them to the profession, the desire to know what's in the locked box. The need to dismantle the alarm system to see how it works. No matter how long he wore the leather and X emblem, Remy Lebeau would remain a thief. Kneeling, he examines the contents of the bag.

Lightweight, any-weather clothing. Jeans, running shoes, tshirts, a dark hoodie. Toiletries in small, travel sized portions. Passports – and he can't stop a smile of pride to see multiples, with multiple names. Drivers licenses too. No fewer than six white envelopes, each containing differing amounts of cash in differing denominations. A cell phone charger with a car adaptor.

It's the same type of thing he kept packed in his own rooms. The type of on-the-run survival kit he's lived out of for too long. A neatly folded piece of paper catches his attention, he reaches for it, expression carefully blank, movements slow and controlled.

Her handwriting is precise, sharp, rather than a typical curvaceous female hand. The paper contains a list of cities, notations on routes to reach each one. The same cities he had – until today – been considering fleeing to.

Feeling as though he's moving through molasses, he carefully repacks the bag, pushing it to the back of the closet where he found it. Movements stiff, he returns the door to the partly ajar state that caught his attention and strides to the window. In a matter of seconds, he's perched on the roof.

He lights a cigarette with a quick charge, and stares over the mansion's grounds. The sun is setting, red, orange, neon pink staining the sky like a preschooler's finger painting.

He knows she was a runaway, which could explain the bag. She, too, knew what it was like to live on the run, always moving and never certain where tomorrow would be.

Except for the list. The list that said clearly she was prepared to come after him if he left. And he had been about to leave. He had changed his mind, but he still had been about to leave.

No one's ever . . . cared (he won't even think the other word, not yet) enough to be prepared to chase him before. Hunt him down for his genetics or powers, yes. Find him for his skills for a job, yes. But even his father hadn't bothered to look for him when he left home. The one woman he'd had enough of a connection with to call an ex would be most likely to kill him if she ever thought to track him down.

Dieu, his girlfriend knew he was about to run, and rather than talk him out of it, she was quietly preparing to follow.

He runs that sentence through his mind again, and freezes, mid puff.

His girlfriend.

He hadn't called her that yet. Hadn't even referred to their evenings out as dates. To do so would make their relationship something solid, something he wanted. If it was real, if he allowed himself to think of what they had as something viable, it would be taken away. If she mattered to him, if he allowed himself to care (still not thinking the other word) then she could be used against him, could be hurt in order to hurt him. If he opened up to her, she'd see the things he's done, the things he's seen and all the darkness he hid behind charming smiles and careless grins, and seeing that, she'd leave.

Exhaling the smoke from his lungs, he considers. Her mentor was the best merc he'd ever worked with, and a damn talented tracker. An inborn ability to forcibly take any information she might need or want on his whereabouts was her mutation. The same ability meant she already saw the stains on his soul and hadn't even blinked. She possessed a stubborn streak wider than the Mississippi River she grew up near, a stubbornness he's already buckled under more than once. If things got dicey, she had a whole school of backup ready to come to her aid at a moment's notice.

She'd never allow him to flee, not from her, not from fear. He winces in anticipation of the beating she'd give him if he ever mentioned leaving for her safety.

He hears the door below open through the window he left open. Hears her enter her own room. Taking another drag from his cigarette, he concludes where his thoughts have been leading.

Girlfriend. She was strong enough, physically, emotionally, and mentally to carry that title. Only one question remains to answer, and he knows he has only minutes before she's on the roof with him. Knows that somehow, he needs to decide before he tells her he's staying.

Is he strong enough to love her?


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Note: I'm not entirely happy with this one - I don't feel I understand Bobby nearly as well as I do the other characters. I'm having some difficulty capturing the tone of his and Rogue's friendship - and so I apologise for the akwardness that comes through in this writing. Ah well. Probably just means I need to spend some more time working on Bobby chapters so I understand him better. **

**Also, I'm giving up on thinking this piece is completed. It's obvious by now I'll be writing these character sketches for some time. I'm changing the status of the story to reflect that. **

**As a poor college student who can't even afford a new chef coat, I have no actual claim to Marvel. **

He was not waiting for her. Never mind that everyone in the school knew that after a fight with Logan, Rogue showered and then headed to the kitchen to concoct the bizarre protein laden. . . drink things she claimed helped her muscles repair before heading to bed.

No, Bobby was not waiting for his friend. He was simply craving ice cream, and the ice cream was located in the kitchen. That he could easily have taken his bowl into the rec room where the rest of the college aged students were watching some movie, or to his bedroom for that matter, wasn't worth thinking about.

He was eating ice cream. That's all. If Rogue happened to come into the kitchen while he was eating his ice cream, all well and good. Running into her casually, he could tell her that he finally saw the side of Gambit she kept insisting was there, bestow his blessing on what already made her happy, and be done with it. One evening of tutoring didn't mean he was friends with the guy, but he was willing to officially withdraw his disapproval.

Glancing down at his bowl, he frowns at the rapidly disappearing ice cream, hoping she'll come in for her shake soon so he could get this casual run in over with before his excuse to be here was gone. That didn't sound convoluted at all.

When humming reaches his ears, he tries not to jump guiltily before she strides, sock feet silent, into the room. Her grin widens when she sees him, glance from his face to his bowl and back telling him she's not fooled at all by his excuse.

"Hi, Bobby." Damp hair trailing down her back, she walks lightly to the refrigerator to find the ingredients for her nightly drink. "How'd the homework go?"

He's going to pretend he doesn't hear mocking laughter in her question.

"Frustrating. What made me think accounting would suit me?" He takes a bite of ice cream and skeptically watches ingredients line up on the kitchen island. Frozen mango chunks. Silken Soy. Raw eggs. His ice cream container.

"You're good with numbers." She's still grinning as she pulls out the blender, plopping the combination of items inside. "Could be worse, pre-Law isn't exactly a picnic."

"I thought I was good with numbers." He sticks his tongue out at her and wrinkles his nose.

Her fingers hover over the pulse button of the blender before she pauses, turning to the spice rack and plucking a bottle from the back. At his curious expression, she shrugs, shaking something that smells vaguely like perfume into the potion.

"Cardamom. Really good with mango." A frown and she puts the container on the counter, staring at it. "Indian flavor combination, I think. Not sure who it comes from."

With a shrug of her slender shoulders, loud buzzing fills the room while her brew mixes. Bobby's even more certain it's unnatural when it turns a sickly yellow color dotted with black specks.

That's another thing. The last few months, she's been a lot more nonchalant about what influences the psyches she absorbs exert over her. He's torn between thinking it means she's finally accepting her mutation, or related to her slowly growing control.

"You're really going to drink that?" He asks when she stops the motor of the blender.

She rolls her eyes in response, pouring the fusion into a tall glass before replacing items to the fridge.

"Sure, because my drinking protein after a work-out is what's suspicious, not you sitting here pretending not to be waiting on me. What's up?"

He watches her without looking at her, eyes glued to the last spoonful of mostly melted ice cream in his bowl. He wants to shudder when she takes a large swallow of the yellow product.

"Actually, it's about Gambit."

Crap. Wrong way to start. Rogue's face has completely shut down, glass setting on the island with a click that's much too loud in the previously friendly room. Bobby knows his mutation isn't responsible for the sudden drop in temperature, and cringes when he thinks it's still his fault.

"I don't want to fight with you tonight, Bobby." There's a warning in her southern drawl he recognizes oh – too – easily.

Sinking his head into his hands, Bobby suppresses a groan. Wasn't this how they spent the end of their attempted relationship? One would say something stupid, the other would over react and eventually someone would apologize. Well, not this time, dammit.

"No, not what you're thinking." He chances a look towards her and feels inordinate relief to see she's sipping on the god awful concoction once more. That means she's willing to listen. "I spent some time with him today and. . .uh. ."

It was downright eerie how much attention she could give. When Rogue decides to give her full attention, it was the type of listening that swallows any words spoken into her intent, careful, focus.

"He just . . . doesn't seem so bad. I was wrong, ok? And I've been a jerk. But he's not a bad guy, and if he makes you happy. . . " Alright, maybe he was apologizing. A little. But he had been a jerk since learning of their relationship.

"Is this where I get to say 'I told you so'?" The laughter is back in her tone, and he's glad they won't fight tonight.

"You could. . ." Blue eyes dancing, he exerts a small amount of will to freeze the melted puddle in his bowl. "But someone who's dating a man who's a hundred and two ought to try and be more mature than 'I told you so's'."

"Bobby!" She reaches across the island to slug his arm, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make him wince – which he cheerfully exaggerates. "He ain't that old."

Rubbing the spot that's likely to bruise by morning, he grins back at her.

"What, too soon?"

It's been a long time – too long – since the two of them have been in the same room without an underlying tenseness. No matter how hard Bobby tried to pretend it wasn't there, his refusal to accept her relationship had been straining their friendship for months. Before long, they're laughing, joking with a freedom he hadn't realized he'd missed.

By time she's finished drinking the horribly tinted monstrosity, and he's washing the few dishes they've both dirtied, it feels like her first few days at the mansion. Light hearted, joking and friendly. A comfortable quiet grows between them while she wipes down the counters, humming softly under her breath.

Task completed, she throws the bleach-rag into the sink with a happy sound.

"Well, I'm headed to bed, early day tomorrow."

Placing the pieces of the blender in the dry rack, Bobby nods. He has an early appointment with Ms. Munroe in the morning, and he's half worried she's discovered the perpetrator of several pranks currently plaguing the school.

"Hey," He turns at her voice, finding her at the door, green eyes nervous as he meets her gaze. "Thanks . . . for giving him a chance – finally. It means a lot to me."

Uncomfortable, Bobby drops his eyes, fiddling with the dishrag. When John had left, Rogue had been the only one to understand how he felt. How deep the betrayal went. When she'd left to get the Cure – no one understanding how temporary it would be – he'd been less than supportive. Lacey frost patterns curl around the edges of the stainless steel sink before he meets her eyes again.

"So, are we good?" It was about time he started being the type of friend to her that she'd been to him.

"Yeah, Bobby. We're good." Her voice is soft, and with a wave she disappears out the doorway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author Note: My longest chapter yet. Although, if I allow these two alone, unsupervised, again, I might have to bump the rating. ::shakes her head::. Let me know if you'd like to see Remy's POV for this scene.**

**I don't even own the car I drive, what makes anyone think I could possibly own Marvel? **

Logan faded from her mutation differently than most others. She suspects it has to do with the frequency with which she's absorbed him over time, certain traits linger longer.

The claws fade first, roughly the same time ratio as absorbing a total stranger. Healing factor, she can usually hang on to for a bit longer; long enough to avoid a muscle seize if she doesn't cool down properly after their fight, but not long enough to avoid drinking her protein shakes in the evening.

However, even now, hours after the match on the lawn, when she enters her bedroom, Logan's enhanced sense of smell informs her of Remy's recent presence. Cayenne, leather, cigarettes, burnt energy, and something that was purely male, uniquely Remy. She inhales deeply, taking in as much of his scent as she can, scent that even the open window hasn't dispersed.

Open window?

The grin that spreads across her face is nearly wide enough to be painful. She knows without any other sign that he's waiting for her on the roof, one of the very few places in the mansion she ever managed to find privacy.

Checking carefully in the mirror, she ruffles her mostly dry hair, considers applying eyeliner or lipstick before shaking her head. Make up wouldn't match at all with the green and yellow pajamas she's wearing. Taking time to change was ridiculous when he no doubt heard her enter her room, and she feels the beginning of a blush imagining him checking on her if she took too long before joining him outside.

Not that she'd object.

Instead, she grabs a blanket folded neatly on the chair by the window for exactly this purpose. The day may have been warm, but fall nights were dipping onto the chilly side. With a final glance in the mirror, she's out the window and scaling the rough stone wall to the roof, blanket hanging securely around her neck.

He's a dark, hunched silhouette in the dusk light, a trio of glowing pinpricks from his eyes and cigarette when she makes it over the edge.

"Bon nuit, chere." His voice is a low rumble, a near tangible thing as she settles herself beside him on the roof, his arm curling around her waist as she arranges her blanket.

"Hey, sugar." Leaning her head against his leather-covered shoulder, she breathes his scent deeply. The last of his cigarette is an arching flash as he tosses the charged butt off the roof.

"How was the match?"

She tilts her head up to meet his eyes, such beautiful, unique eyes have drawn her in since the day they met.

"You were watchin, what do you think?"

He chuckles, lighting another cigarette on the heels of the first, before breaking from her gaze to look at the stars.

"You surprised him, for sure. T'ink you gave him as much of a workout as he gave you."

He's anxious. Body language may be relaxed, but he chain smokes when he's nervous. She can't fight a shiver that isn't from the dropping temperature as she remembers he avoids her eyes when he's hiding something. For someone who's survived only by keeping his thoughts to himself, she's learnt to read the small, subtle gestures that speak his truth in a short time.

"Tu froid?" Nervous and hiding, this was it, he was leaving.

"Price o'living north of the mason-dixie line, darlin'." She forces her voice to come out smooth, light. Wonders if he'd give her warning, tell her he was going, or if he expected to simply vanish.

Not that she's about to let him get away with either.

"Come here, then." She doesn't protest as he maneuvers her to sit between his legs, rearranges the blanket over her own, envelopes her torso in the warmth of him and his jacket. He takes a drag from the cigarette, smoke tumbling from his lips when he speaks, close to her ear.

"This is better, non?" His free hand wraps around her waist, tugging her to lean into his chest. "I definitely prefer this. Warmer too."

Lord! She can't think when he does that, when she's surrounded by him so thoroughly. Sighing, she plucks the cigarette from his hand, closing her eyes and taking a pull from it.

"Didn't think you smoked, chere." There's amusement in his voice, and he's so warm, and his hand is tracing her ribcage, down along the dip of her waist and edging the swell of her hip. She can't think, can't focus, this is why she wound up absorbing him when he was near.

"I don't, but Logan does." His hand travels down the outside of her thigh to her upraised knee. She takes another drag. "Ain't no way I'm asking for a cigar afterwards, but I want the nicotine."

His second hand joins the first, ghosting over pajamas in 'safe' areas of her body beneath the blanket. Logan had been right – sort of. Whatever limit she set, Remy patiently edged along until she stopped being defensive about the type of touch. Then, casually, he'd toe just barely over the line until she obligingly moved her boundary. He'd start the process again as soon as she was comfortable. She never felt pressured to go further, but couldn't deny that he was dissolving her resistance with every touch.

She isn't sure as to why he's always touching her. Suspects he occupies his hands to soothe himself. Doesn't deny it could be a habit picked up to distract women in the past. Thinks it could be a deliberate use of her powers to facilitate communication, ensure he isn't misunderstood by giving her the opportunity to take his thoughts with his very words.

Another pull from the cigarette and she starts to offer it back, but his head is bowed over her neck, close enough she feels the heat of his lips without contact.

"Should get you some o' those flavored cigarillos. Stash 'em up here for a late night secret."

Set her up with her own supply. He was leaving. So much for school this semester – who knew how many days she'd miss while tracking him down and hauling his cowardly butt back where it belonged? She could always reenroll for the spring.

She stubs the cigarette out on the roof's shingles. A single finger plays against the skin where her buttoned top and drawstring pants meet. This time, when she shivers, even he knows it has nothing to do with the cold.

When she turns her face back to him, he captures her lips, a kiss that's soft and undemanding. Gentle as his hands on her flesh. Her mutation begins to pull, and she immediately attempts to stifle it. Focusing the pull to draw only his immediate emotions, nothing else. Normally, this technique allows her to feel his desire for her, to taste the emotion he refuses to name but she recognizes. Recognizes because it's how she feels for him.

Tonight, tonight she feels his worry, the anxiety that had him chain smoking before she arrived. She tastes his secrets and breaks the kiss before she can absorb what they are. No need to pull it from him when she knows his plan already.

"Rogue," he croons, partially gloved hand rising to cup her face, thumb tracing her lip. "Marie, I--"

"No," she whispers before cutting him off with a kiss. She doesn't want to hear reasons or excuses. He was running, and she'd be damned if she was going to make it easy for him.

Twisting in his grasp to press herself against as much of him as she can, her kiss is everything his wasn't. Rough, demanding, her tongue slips between his lips, hands following the rough lines of his chest through the cotton of his shirt. His fingers tighten against her flesh, the worry diminishing from her pull to be replaced with his delight in her aggressiveness.

She follows him when he leans back to lie against the roof, his hands pulling her to rest securely over his body. Slanting her mouth for a better angle, she deepens her exploration of his mouth, concentrating on his desire as his leg slides up between hers. It's a long moment before she breaks for air.

"Marie. . . dieu, you're crying?"

Dammit, she was going to be strong about this. She'd seen it coming, knew he would run. Prepared for it. She just didn't expect it to hurt so much when he finally did. Her plans to follow, for a moment, don't matter. Her plans to let him go before chasing him down and beating into his head that he's stuck with her fade in that pain.

"You're leaving. I don't want you to."

His entire body jerks beneath her at the words. Gorgeous red on black eyes widen where they smoldered moments ago.

"Maudit tabernaque." He twists with the epithet, landing above her, her arms crushed between their chests. "You think I'm . . .? That kiss was. . . christe. I thought you knew, thought you took . . ."

He looses a short chuckle before shaking his head, eyes closed. Confused, she blinks away her tears, not understanding what he's saying when he refuses to use full sentences. When he speaks again, it's against her skin, interspersed with kisses along her jaw and neck. Which does nothing to help her understanding.

"Applied for the maths position today."

"Teaching? But that would mean. . ." It would mean he's staying. At least for the school year, Ororo insisted on year long contracts.

"Ain't going no where you ain't, chere." He shifts his weight, resting on one arm to smooth hair away from her face. A smile quirks his lips. "Sides, found the bag. You weren't about to let me leave anyway."

She blushes a little, at that, being caught. But more important is her wonder.

"You're staying?" She hates how small her voice sounds.

He doesn't answer her, not verbally, but dips his head down to kiss her again. Through her mutation she takes the truth of his words, of his decision to remain. She hooks pajama clad legs around his hips, eagerly meeting his kiss. He was staying. For that, she's willing to temporarily ignore the undercurrent of worry still running through his psyche.

His hips press deep against her own, and she whimpers. Drunk on the sensations he summons, on his declaration, on his desire for her, on that emotion he refused to name.

With a shattered moan he pulls away, breath harsh, eyes burning as he focuses them on hers.

"I'm not a good man, chere." She reads the warning in his tone, the challenge.

"I know." She'd had a good man, and it hadn't worked. Bobby had tried, but he never did understand what her mutation meant. What it meant to have the likes of Magneto running through her head. To have Sabertooth and Logan, and strangers vying for her mind. He'd never understood where she was coming from, or what a year on her own on the streets had done. He couldn't. Remy did, and more.

"What I want is a bad man, who's good to me." She slides her hands down his back, pushing her hips up to his to watch him shudder. "That's you, and I love ya for it."

He is still above her, eyes tightly shut. She wonders for a moment if she's gone too fast, said too much. Crossed one of his lines for a change. When he does speak, it's a bare breath of a whisper against her lips, prelude to a kiss.

"Je t'aime, Marie."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author Note: Decided most of the lines I was coming up with for Remy's thoughts in the last one could probably be applied somewhere else, so we'll dive into Logan's head for a bit instead. I might be breaking away from some typical interpretations of Logan, but I feel this is more in keeping with the personality we're presented with in the movies. :crosses her fingers:: I hope it works.**

**Again, if I could afford to own Marvel, I would be able to afford my own laptop, wouldn't I?**

Logan's personal theory was that so long as there was consent involved in whatever the teenagers did behind closed doors at night, it was none of his business.

However, Xavier's was a school. As a school, Charles and Ororo had explained, patiently, repetitively, that in order to maintain their accreditation, certain activities on behalf of the student body had to be. . . controlled. He was asked to patrol the hallways and ensure the students were behaving.

Disagreeing with the policy even if he understood the reasons for it, Logan developed his own system for breaking up. . . inappropriate behavior. Any boy found in a girl's room was systematically hauled out and marched back to his own wing. This pleased the telepaths who kept a closer third eye on the girls' wing. Any girl found in a boy's room was given a one hour deadline before Logan would be coming through again and not so lenient. Making it safer to retreat to the boys' side had the added bonus of convincing the teenage boys to keep their rooms cleaner than they were inclined to otherwise.

After a particularly awkward incident with a kid by the name of Jean-Paul, Logan steadfastly ignored any evidence of members of the same gender in the wrong room. Emma's threats of a complete psychological restructuring were not enough to risk going through _that_ again.

The final step to his system was any student clever enough to hide what they were doing from his senses were given a free pass if caught sneaking back to their own rooms. If they could hide from him, they obviously weren't about to get the school brought in front of the Education Board by angry parents.

All of this, of course, was implied rather than said. Any inhabitant of the mansion who couldn't figure out the system through observation didn't deserve to take advantage of it.

So when Logan's second patrol of the boys' wing finds Kitty phasing through Piotr's closed door, he isn't about to make an issue of it. He'd been through this hall not too long ago and detected nothing. Either the kids had been quick or clever. Seeing as Kitty was the same girl who took down the Juggernaut first with, and then without, her powers, Logan was willing to side with clever.

"Evenin' Pryde."

She gives a guilty jump at his voice, a small unsure – but – game smile when she meets his eyes.

"Evening, Mr. Logan. Nice night isn't it?"

"Will be if you're in bed when I patrol the girl's wing."

Grinning, she takes his hint, a jaunty salute before she phases through the floor.

He doesn't encounter anything else for the rest of his check. Kitty's even managing a good impression of being fast asleep when he checks her room. It isn't until he takes the end of his route by the extended guest rooms that he hears something.

Something suspiciously like a window opening from the outside followed by a muffled curse.

Coming from any other room, and he'd start the alarm protocols put in place after Stryker's attempt on the school a couple years ago. Coming from this room, he knocks once before opening the door.

Inside, he finds that the window apparently refused to open entirely, forcing the inhabitant of the room to squeeze through a narrow opening, head first. Hands on the floor, feet slowly following, the man grins at Logan's raised eyebrows.

"Bon soir, mon ami. Ca va?"

A rough grunt, and Logan leans on the door frame.

"You could walk the halls, like a normal person."

The younger man rises gracefully to his feet, shoulders shrugging to resettle his jacket. He peers carefully at Logan before shaking his head.

"That would involve passing through her bedroom, which is not such a good idea." A movement of his head displaces too long hair out of his eyes. "A man has only so much self control, n'est-pas?"

Logan grunts again, wishing, not for the first time, that his sense of smell wasn't quite so keen. There are some things he would really rather not know.

"I'm finishing the room checks. You up for a garage run?"

Again, because Xavier's as a school housed a large number of children, technically, alcohol was banned from the premises. Ororo had first asked, then demanded, and finally threatened Logan with lightening to keep this particular habit off grounds. Xavier may have overruled her preference when it came to smoking, but she remained adamant about the alcohol until Remy's arrival.

He didn't know the details of the weather witch and Cajun charmer's history to understand why his occasional friend was able to change her mind. But he was more than willing to take advantage of the fact that he did, even if it was under the condition that the master thief kept the booze hidden where the students wouldn't find it.

Hence the garage, and a hidden compartment the two of them had rigged together.

"Bien sur, always. Ten minutes?"

Scenting the air, Logan fights a cringe.

"Make it twenty, bub. Take a shower." Straightening from the doorway, he turns to leave before throwing a last comment over his shoulder. "If I don't smell it, I don't have to ask. If I don't ask, I don't have to kill you."

Remy's startled laughter follows him, even when he closes the door.

An hour later finds both men sitting in flimsy lawn chairs in the oversized garage. A fold-away table holds empty beer bottles, poker chips, forgotten playing cards and an overflowing ashtray.

"Ever get the feeling dis is more of a show room den something actually owned?" Remy finishes his bottle, reaching for another one and shaking his head. "Even before the customizations, some o' this would be pretty on the black market."

"You should check over one-eye's bike sometime." He takes a sip of his own beer to hide a give-away twitch of his lips. "Sweet ride."

Eyes glowing with what Logan knows to be a plot, Remy nods slowly.

"How'd a couple guys like us wind up here?"

"Don' know about you, homme," He lights another cigarette, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "But dis one's always been lucky."

"Heard you were about to stick around for a while."

This is not the kind of conversation drinking buddies had. This is not the type of conversation Logan would normally have with anyone, under any circumstance. Let alone instigate. Rogue was quietly exempt from this rule as she typically kept such conversations to training mats. It's much easier to accept a heart to heart when simultaneously calculating how to best incapacitate the other party.

"Jesu, news travels fast in this place."

With a mental snort, Logan sips his beer, noting that it's getting unfavorably warm. On the other hand, he'd defy any man alive to live with the women he did and not develop some working emotional vocabulary. Damn female telepaths would not only know what you're thinking _but make you say it anyway._

"Dis where you threaten dis one if I hurt her?" There's a humor that doesn't quite disguise wariness in the other man's tone.

"Nope. Figure she can kick your ass all on her own if you're that stupid." Logan puts the warming beer on the table and reaches for a cold one from the cooler. "I'm more than happy to watch if it comes to that."

"Fille does have a temper, don't she?" He cuts his eyes towards Logan with a familiar, unsettling intensity. "And a mean right hook."

"Take a guess who taught her." Logan shifts uncomfortably in his chair, picking at the label of his beer bottle. "Look, it's a good thing here. Guys like you and I don't normally get a chance to be a part of something this good. It's a shot at redemption. Don't run from it."

"Wasn't planning on it, homme."

This time, Logan snorts out loud.

"Liar." He sips his beer. "Sides, if you run, she's gonna chase ya down. I'll have to follow, and then Storm's gonna get all bent out of shape when I miss a few classes."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: ::shakes an accusatory finger at her reviewers:: This is all your fault, you know. This was all going to be a one, then two shot. Nice little snippet of Bobby coming to terms with Remy and Rogue. Snippet of Remy coming to terms with Remy and Rogue. Then you guys **_**encouraged**_** me. You know what happened? I tripped over a miniature plot, that's what happened. ::grumbles:: I should have spent this weekend without internet working on 'Melding' so that I can answer questions like. . . like why does Remy not passout when necking with Marie? Why is Remy at the institute? What the hell is 'the chaos this past summer' people keep mentioning? I should have rewritten the five existing chapters to improve the quality of that story to match the quality of this one.**

**But noooo. . . I tripped and fell in the middle of a puddle of plot, **_**and it's all your fault. **_**So I hope it pleases y'all to know you can take direct responsibility for this one shot multiplying into somesort of monster.**

**If I owned anything to do with Marvel, there would have been naked Remy in the Origins movie. Just sayin. **

Bobby takes a deep breath to steady himself before knocking on the headmistress's door. Though Xavier had been back at the school for months now, Ms. Munroe continued to take the administrative duties of running the school as her own. The professor appeared to be operating in more of a figurehead/guidance councilor position, rather than resuming his duties from before all the unpleasantness with Jean and his own. . . change.

Waiting for a response from within the office, Bobby muses that in spite – or perhaps because – of Ms. Munroe's lack of telepathic ability, it was even more terrifying to be called to this office than it had been with the Professor. At least with the Professor there had been almost a relief that the telepath already knew everything you'd done. Not this guesswork of which broken rule had been discovered.

"Come in."

The office, once a place that summoned to mind opulent comfort with it's tasteful, masculine wooden furniture and sparse decorations, now resembles a miniature jungle. Potted plants flow over the dark wooden desk, bright healthy shots of green amongst neat stacks of white paper and manila folders.

Still uncertain as to why he's been summoned, Bobby enters to stand beside a chair, across from the woman still seated behind vining vegetation.

"I am glad you made it on time, Robert, please, take a seat."

It couldn't be the Nair in Beast's body wash. Dr. McCoy had already taken Bobby aside after that one and expressed disappointment in such an unimaginative prank. Turns out, once upon a time, Dr. Henry McCoy had been the school's resident prankster. He'd promised not to rat him out if he promised to be more imaginative in future endeavors. There was something about a joke master's code, but Bobby, at that point too relieved to not be getting into trouble, hadn't been able to pay too much attention.

Bobby sat, resting his hands lightly on the arms of a low backed chair and proceeded to fidget.

"You are no doubt wondering why I asked you here today,"

He was fairly certain it wasn't the bird seed that kept appearing in Warren's dresser drawers. The two were good friends, and the last time the winged man had mentioned the mysterious seed, he still seemed flummoxed as to it's appearance.

"The truth is, I hope to gain your insight on a matter that has recently come to my attention."

Wait, insight? Wasn't that like advice?

"Uh, anything I can do to help, Ms. Munroe."

Shuffling paper before her on the desk, the woman opens a folder before continuing.

"I am sure you are aware that we have experienced some difficulty finding a suitable mathematics teacher for the high school students here at the institute."

Bobby can't stop a grin at that. Even before he graduated, the temporary nature of teachers for the math position had been subject to a running pool each time a new face was brought in. The longest to keep the job had been a baseline human who won Jubilee more than three hundred dollars by staying for an entire term. It was now three weeks before the high school term began, and the position remained empty.

"Um. Yeah." Refusing to meet the headmistress's eyes, Bobby focuses on a particularly lush looking plant on the corner of her desk. "I may have noticed that a time or two."

"Be that as it may, I have here an applicant who has listed you as a reference." Dark eyes intent, bewilderment clear on the dark skinned woman's features as she leans forward over the desk.

"Me? But I – I don't know anyone who's interested in teaching here, especially not math."

"Oh? Then Remy did not assist you with your homework? I would not put it past him to lie on an application. . ."

"Gambit?" Bobby almost chokes on the idea. "No, I mean, yes, he did, but. . ."

Her eyes no longer focused on him nor the file open in front of her, Ororo Munroe's focus shifts elsewhere.

"I don't know if being tutored once makes me qualified to make a judgment on his teaching ability, ma'm."

"I have no doubts as to his mathematic ability," Is that amusement in her tone? "Nor, for that matter, his patience when instructing a novice in a new skill."

Not for the first time since the devil eyed mutant appeared at the institute, Bobby wishes he understood the man's connections to so many people in his life. The scant knowledge available, most of it born from the student rumor mill, connected him to several of the adults there. That the man had a past with Logan made sense, given the dark nature of the Wolverine's history.

But no amount of speculation had yet adequately explained why the impassive, morally upright leader of the X-Men known as Storm treated the rake with such open fondness. Somehow, Jubilee's theory that the two had once been lovers had never sat well with Bobby – though it would explain Ororo's frank disapproval of Gambit's blooming relationship with Rogue.

Bobby blinks when her gaze returns to him, this time her dark gaze intent.

"I understand that you and Rogue remain close friends?" She pauses only long enough for him to give a confused nod. "As her friend, what is your take on their relationship?"

So that's what this was about – whether or not hiring Gambit as a teacher would make trouble on the team. Wasn't it just last night he decided to be a better friend to the girl who stood by him? Bobby shakes his head, meeting Ororo's eyes with determination.

"I'm sorry Ms. Munroe, but I don't feel comfortable reporting on my friend and her private life." Barely a pause before he adds, "But she's happier than I've seen her in a long time. If he's responsible for that, I won't get between them."

An exasperated sigh, and the woman waves her hand negligently at Bobby.

"It is not Rogue I worry about – while I may not have agreed with all of her decisions in recent past, she is a strong woman. Most likely a steadying influence on Remy." Leaning back in her chair, she chews her lower lip, obviously disgruntled. "It is Remy himself I worry about, and for. He has been betrayed so often, he has a tendency to see anything good as a trap. While I rejoice for his interest in what we do here. . ."

Understanding comes suddenly to Bobby, so suddenly he jerks forward in his seat.

"There's no point in hiring him if he's about to run?"

"Exactly, Robert." She laces her fingers together on her lap, studying her hands as though something is printed on them Bobby can't see. "I would love for the brother of my heart to fully be a part in our mission. But fear too much, too soon will only make him skittish. Even if he thinks himself ready."

Bobby leans back, thinking carefully as pieces fell into place. While he was inclined to believe the man capable of running, disappearing thoroughly, one image keeps returning to his mind's eye.

"Ms. Munroe?"

The intensity with which Gambit had watched Rogue the other day in the library. The unspoken threat when Bobby revealed himself to be an ex-beau to the man's interest.

"I honestly believe that so long as Rogue is here, Gambit isn't going anywhere."

"Are you certain?"

_Looks like I'll be staying for a while. _

"I'd stake my uniform on it."

"Very well." Ororo straightens, marking something in the folder with delicate strokes of her pen. "My thanks, Robert."

Taking her words as a dismissal, Bobby stands, heading for the door. His hand is on the handle before she speaks again.

"I do hope you are as punctual to your Danger Room session this afternoon as you were to this meeting, Robert."

"What session?" Confusion colors his voice and he turns to face her. Bobby takes his role as an X-man seriously and knows he isn't scheduled for either one on one or group training until much later in the week.

"The one at two this afternoon." Humor sparkles in her dark eyes. "Advice for any future pranks? Covering your tracks with peppermint bombs will only fool Logan's senses if you, yourself, do not smell like peppermint."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author Note: Um. Yeah, so, I am aware that in the X-Men Origins: Wolverine movie, Gambit's eyes are brown unless he uses his power. However, I'm choosing to ignore that. Gambit's eyes are red on black, dammit. In my personal universe, Remy was wearing brown contacts when Wolverine meets him in the bar. Just. . . go with that, ok? **

**I'm trying to allow the four POV characters interact with other people, because quite frankly, no relationship exists in a vacuum. Yes, Rogue and Remy are the focus. Their relationship is what got me reading fanfiction again, and therefore, what got me writing fanfiction again. I mean it, last time I dealt in fanfic, I was a hardcore Sailor Moon fan with an obsession for Haruka and Michiru. Think about that for a minute. Mhmm. That was over ten years ago. No, you may not see any of the junk I wrote back then – I don't think it even exists anymore.**

**This entire chapter exists for one, specific plot point. Maybe that's why it was so hard to write, and therefore so short.**

**If I had ownership of these characters, I would love them and feed them and pet them and call them George.**

**. . . **

**I don't own Bugs Bunny either.**

Dieu. His head ached. Remy didn't even want to attempt opening his eyes, knowing with a time sense developed from a life of questionable dealings, that late morning sunlight filled his room. Late morning on a Saturday meant the kitchen would be filled by the student body and their habitual weekend grab and go brunch. That meant dealing with loud teenagers if he wanted to reach the coffee pot.

One day, he would learn not to gauge his own alcohol tolerance against a man in possession of regenerative capabilities of Logan's caliber. Until that day, drinking with the Canadian was the only time Remy suffered from a hang over, the cure for which, he was certain, resided in the afore mentioned coffee pot.

Groaning, he sits, sheets a tangled mess around his legs. Experimentally, he cracks open his eyes, almost immediately slamming them shut again. A hand gropes blindly for darkened sunglasses on his bedside table.

Once the glasses are in place, he's able to open his eyes, pain a tolerable level. Movements slow, Remy struggles with his dresser for clean clothing, finally settling on a thin t shirt and worn jeans before adding fingerless leather gloves.

Miserable, he almost misses the envelopes stuck under his door. When he does see them, he has to read the enclosed letter twice before the meaning of it sinks in.

_Remy,_

_Part of an instructor's task is to formulate and supervise fitting punishment for the misbehavior of students. In light of this, and your interest in joining the ranks of our teachers, I have scheduled you to be in charge of the Danger Room session of two delinquent students this afternoon at two. Details can be found in the DR schedule on the administrator's computer. I'm sure you already know the password._

_Think of it as a qualifying test._

_Ororo _

Maudit tabernaque. What a _perfect_ day for one of Stormy's little games. Two o'clock, that gave him what, three hours to be human?

The second envelope, large, document sized, is postmarked from New Orleans. Recognizing the flowing, feminine script, he leaves it on his dresser before locking his door.

Muttering to himself, Remy stalks, slowly, towards the kitchen, coffee, and aspirin.

At five minutes after two, he enters the Danger Room, coffee cup steaming in his hands. His sixth since waking. The only concession to the official training room of the X-men is retrieving his leather duster before entering. He waves to Dr. McCoy up in the observation deck before considering the two people in the bare room.

The 'delinquent' students are already waiting for him, in uniform. Remy rolls his eyes, but feels relieved that he recognizes one of them. Bobby's watching him curiously, the Asian girl's gaze is nearly hostile.

"What are you in for?" She snaps her bubblegum, arms crossed over her chest.

"Displeased Stormy. An' you, petite?"

"Tried to swipe Mr. Summers' glasses, but Dr. Grey kinda caught me."

He raises an expectant eyebrow at Bobby, surprised when the younger man colors.

"Um. Not entirely sure."

"How do you not know what got you in trouble, Bobby?" The girl scowls, shaking her head.

"Well, Ms. Munroe mentioned the peppermint bombs, but I used them as cover for a few different pranks, and I don't know which one in particular's got me the Danger Room." The boy examines his uniform boots, steadfastly not meeting anyone's eyes. "Kinda figure whenever the teacher gets here, they'll let me know which one I'm in for."

"I wonder who's coming in? They're late, so you know it's not Mr. Summers." Ignoring Remy entirely, she glances slyly at Bobby. "Have you heard there's already a new math teacher?"

Remy hides a smile behind his coffee cup, catching the way Bobby glances in his direction before answering. The boy knows.

"Heard something to that effect. Not really a shock though, there's only a couple weeks before the term begins."

"Yeah, well. Who's in charge of the pool this year?"

"I am, but you're not going to bet before knowing who it is are you?"

"Well. . ." the girl trails off, frustrated.

"You bet on the math teachers?" Intrigued, Remy aims his question at the boy.

Bobby's face heats, gaze darting between the girl and himself. It's a moment before he brings himself to answer.

"On how long they'll stay. For some reason, the position's been difficult to keep filled." Eyes wide, he continues "Not that it's a particularly hard teaching job or anything."

An audible snort from the girl and Bobby rolls his eyes.

"The longest to keep it was a non mutant who stayed for one term. Jubilee here won the pool for that."

"You got any bets yet?" Jubilee asks, and Remy can't help but be amused at the excitement in her tone. Bobby refuses to look at him.

"One." He does meet Remy's eyes now, and he can see both determination and warning in ice blue eyes. "It's a long shot, but Rogue bet the new one will stay the year."

"Both terms?" Jubilee sounds shocked. "No way anyone's gonna stay that long!"

Rogue bet on him. A smile twists his lips and he reaches to an inside pocket in his duster, a fifty dollar bill in his grasp when he extends his hand to Bobby.

"My bet, homme."

Bobby hesitates, but a notebook appears in his hand when he takes the money. Remy sips his cooling coffee while the boy records the information. Jubilee watches them both, eyes wide.

"For how long?" The kid's tone is suspicious, Remy's grin widens.

"Bot'terms, an' back next year."

Jubilee makes a choked, shocked sound. But Bobby nods, relaxing, writing it down with a smile on his features.

"Now, am I to understan' you'bot' here because you got caught?"

Jubilee stutters at the topic change.

"Well, _duh_. Wouldn't be in trouble if we got away with it, would we?"

"Good point, petite." Another sip of coffee before he raises his voice. "Computer, run simulation: Gambit: Stealth, subdirectory : mansion. Difficulty level two. Access code: Marie."

The girl's name was a perfect password for this run. Aside from the school telepaths who couldn't help but lift the information, Logan was the only other inhabitant of the mansion to have been trusted with it. The significance was lost on everyone else, but this particular simulation was what helped him find the quickest, easiest route to her window and roof.

The room changes, in a matter of moments the trio find themselves standing in the mansion's foyer.

"Voice Recognition Complete. Running Simulation: Gambit, Stealth. Subdurectory : Mansion. Difficulty Level: Two. Subjects: Gambit, Iceman, Jubilee. Last Run Difficulty Level: Ten. Subject: Gambit."

"T'ink the computer's a little put out wit'lowerin the difficulty." A final swallow of coffee before he places the mug on a table.

"You're our detention warden?" The scowl has returned to Jubilee's face. "And what exactly do you teach?"

"Mathematics, petite." A pleased smile at her surprise before he continues. "Mon pere used to say if you're dumb enough to get caught, you deserving t'be caught."

"Maybe, but we don't have your training in general sneakitude." Bobby cocks his head to the side, willing to go along with whatever Remy's planning.

"Dis is a shame, an' about t'be remedied." How in the hell the kids were expected to save the world without some stealth training was beyond Remy. Though it explains how things had been handled on missions. Instead of voicing his disapproval, he lays out the task for his charges.

"From here, travel to Stormy's room an' bring back somethin' shiny. Work t'gether or alone, descision's yours. But you'll be marked on bot'speed an' style. Anytime either o' you' spotted, the session will reset, an' you'll begin again. I'll be tailin, and there's bonus points if you can spot me. Doubt it'll happen, but double if you lose m'tail."

Both adolescents look at each other. Finally, Bobby grabs Jubilee's hand and the two disappear up the staircase. Remy grins.

Rogue had bet on him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author Note: Something to remember here – Logan has known Remy for a long time. While I don't see them being the best of friends at any point, Remy is the first face Logan can remember. I figure they've kept in sporadic touch since Three Mile Island, and due to movie-Remy's habit of being rather talkative, I think Logan knows quite a bit of the younger man's history. Alright, talkative and because I see the two of them always drinking when they get together. Hence the lack of death.**

**This is another fairly long chapter, mostly because I really had fun writing it. So much fun, I couldn't figure out where exactly to stop. Bobby in a panic amuses me. **

**The theories on southern good manners are, I admit, from my personal observation after living in the south for a number of years.**

**I do not own these characters, and I promise to return them to their proper places in the same condition I borrowed them in. I got plastic slip covers for them and **_**everything**_**.**

Southern men have a reputation for unfailing good manners. Sam Guthrie, a returning student at Xavier's Institute was a shinning, bright example of this reputation. Even Remy Lebeau, when not in a foul mood, managed to live up to the expectation of charming chivalry.

Theories abound as to the cause of these well mannered gentlemen, everything from accusations of a sexist, 'take care of the little woman' mentality, to the south being several decades behind the rest of the country in social development, to slower, kinder way of life have been proposed.

After much observation of southern women, one specific, green eyed southern specimen in particular, the student body at Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters had formulated their own theory.

Southern men are polite because southern women can be really scary.

This in mind, Bobby was in no way shocked to hear his friend's accented voice raised in anger that afternoon. While normally sweet natured and kind, Rogue had a temper he'd long ago learnt to avoid triggering. What did strike him as surprising, was the male drawl raised in equal anger.

"Chere, it's for three days."

"An' ya ain't runnin' off wit'out me, Cajun, so forgit tryin." There's a dangerous warning in Rogue's voice Bobby hasn't heard since all the chaos that summer.

"Non. Ain't runnin' noplace, and y'ain't comin wit'dis one. T'ree days, five includin' th'travel. You got school, no sense missin' days for dis."

Curious, Bobby heads towards the voices, joining a crowd of students and residents eavesdropping just out of sight from the fighting pair. Kitty gives him a baffled shrug before turning her attention back.

"Remy Etienne Lebeau, y'all listen to meh good, so's Ah won't have to repeat meh'self."

Still trying to figure out the details of their argument, Bobby idly notes that both thicken their accents in anger.

"There ain't no way in seven hells Ah'm about ta let ya run off ta deal with _her_ on yer lonesome. Either take meh with y'all, or Ah'll follow along behind. But them's yer only choices."

A door slams, and Gambit utters something in French, Bobby's certain it's a curse. Angry footsteps are heading their way, and most of the group scrambles to avoid being caught. Bobby's not fast enough.

"Toi," Eyes blazing, Gambit points an accusatory finger in his direction. "Vien avec."

Leather duster flowing with his movements, the older man doesn't even check to see Bobby obediently following behind. Partly nervous, but mostly curious, he follows into the relative privacy of the garage.

Approaching a section of wall that appears identical to every other piece of wall in the place, something seems to occur to him.

"Quell age-a tu?"

"Um. Nineteen." He's uncertain what relevance his age could possibly have on the man's actions, but answers dutifully. The number seems to satisfy the angry man, and his fingers tap something on the wall to reveal a hidden compartment. From it, Gambit pulls two beers, tossing one to Bobby.

"Close 'nuff. A few hours north, an' you're legal."

Bobby stares at the beer in his hand, uncertain as to what the next few minutes are going to unravel, but almost sure it'll be trouble. Gambit takes a swig from his bottle before turning his fiery gaze in his direction.

"Tu connais la fille. Dite moi –"

"Hey, hold on." Bobby takes the cap off his bottle, not even concentrating to turn the condensation into frost. The glare he receives for interrupting is almost, but not quite, as bad as a Patented Rogue Death Glare. "For a poker player, you sure have an obvious tell."

The glare intensifies, edging into Waking Logan After A Bar Night territory.

"The more upset you are, the more French you speak." This is met with more angry silence, and Bobby starts wish he'd moved faster in the hall way.

"I only took one year of French. In high school." Still no response, no movement aside from that glare. Bobby sighs.

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"You. Know. The. Girl. Tell. Me. How. To. Win. This. Argument." Each word is precise, clipped, harsh.

"Um. I don't actually know what you're fighting about, but my advice? Give in, give in now. Give her whatever she wants, and a present besides."

"Non. Not possible." But he slumps against the wall in defeat, and his glare has decreased in intensity, more resembling the look Scott gives for messing around during a DR session. "What kind of present?"

"Depends on what you've done." Alright. This is officially weird. It was one thing to tell Ms. Munroe this relationship was a good thing. It's something entirely different to have the much older, presumably more experienced man coming to _him_ for relationship advice.

With his best friend.

His ex-girlfriend.

Nope. Not awkward at all.

"Ain't done nuthin." Gambit sighs, sliding against the wall to sit on the floor, long legs sprawled before him. He lights a cigarette with a quick charge and gestures Bobby towards the folding chairs stacked against a cabinet. "Just gonna take a short trip. Go home, file some papers, come back. Three days. She actin' like dis one's running out on her."

Bobby pulls one of the chairs close, finding an ashtray in the cabinet and setting it on the ground next to the Cajun. Wisely, he chooses not to point out that Rogue had several reasons to believe he would just up and disappear.

"Why not bring her along? Or file the papers via mail?"

"It's a family matter." Gambit appears suddenly very interested in the label of his beer bottle.

"So? I bet she'd love to meet your family." A memory grabs his attention, and Bobby frowns. "Unless they hate mutants or don't know you're a mutant. Then it's probably not a good idea."

The other man snorts. Bobby muses that, with his eyes, it's doubtful his family aren't aware of his genetic status. Too, a family of thieves aren't likely to call the cops on them, unlike his own trouble starting brother.

"Not like dis." Gambit's head hits the wall behind him, eyes sliding closed. "When dis one's allowed to go home, want do it right. Take her to Mardis Gras. Show her the N'awlins I know. Places tourists don't go. Places tourists do go."

Allowed to go home?

"So file the papers by mail." Bobby takes a careful sip of his beer, still not understanding where the problem lies. "What kind of papers are they anyway?"

Gambit mumbles something intelligible in response, staring now at the ground between his outstretched legs.

"What was that?"

"Annulment papers."

Bobby spits out his beer. Eyes wide, he sputters for a moment before he's able to speak.

"Annulment? As in annulment of a marriage? You're married?"

"Non. Oui." Sighing, the other arches an eyebrow. "S'complicated."

"Oh my god, you're a dead man. She's going to _kill_ you. I'm drinking with a dead man. Or Logan will. Logan. . ." Bobby's eyes widen again, staring at the beer in his hand as though it were poison. "This is Logan's beer isn't it? I'm dead too. He's going to kill me for drinking his beer, and then kill you if Rogue doesn't. We're dead. Dead men walking. Sitting. Drinking. Maybe if I kill you first, he'll spare me. I should kill you anyway. How in the hell are you _married_?"

Throughout his entire terrified rambling, Gambit watches with amusement. When Bobby finally stops, he covers his eyes with his hand and silence descends between the two men while he tries to process this new information. The sound of a cap being removed from a bottle jerks his attention back. He hadn't even heard Logan enter the room.

"You'd better be talkin' about that blonde, bub." Logan's eyes move from Gambit to the beer in Bobby's hand before settling back on the dejected man on the floor.

"Who else?"

"It's been – what, twelve years?"

"Plus." Blowing smoke from his cigarette, Gambit huffs. "She finally agreein' t'the annulment. Seventy-two hour safe passage t'th'city. Gotta arrive in person to meet the priest an' file the papers, an' Rogue thinks dis one's runnin' off."

"She's convinced you're gonna run anyway." Logan sips his beer, head cocked at the other man. "Never did get the how and why of your bein' hitched."

Bobby watches both of them in shock. Logan knew. Gambit was dating Rogue, Gambit was married, and Logan knew. Logan knew and Gambit wasn't suffering from adamantium poisoning via six nasty claws.

Gambit shrugs, a lazy gesture in the face of, Bobby believes, near certain, bloody death.

"S'political. La famille." A drag from his cigarette while Logan opens a folding chair. "Was eighteen, exiled not an hour after th' I do's."

Bobby takes a deep breath. The situation doesn't sound nearly as bad in that light. Though some words, like 'political' and 'exiled' don't make any sense with Gambit being an American, he's willing to put it aside. If Logan, homicidal-in-the-defense-of-Rogue-Logan can accept this . . . this being married _thing_ with a shrug, Bobby can too. Maybe. He can pretend.

It helps that the Wolverine hasn't said anything about the beer.

Gambit's next words tug his focus back to the conversation in front of him.

"De boy says to get her a present." Gambit pauses, tapping his foot on the concrete floor. "Dunno what to get her though."

"Luggage." Logan settles back in his chair, grinning – Grinning! – at Gambit. "She's going with you. Give up on changing her mind and buy her a suitcase for the trip."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: I've never really liked that Rogue so often, in any incarnation but especially the comics, learns one of Remy's secrets and then proceeds to push him away, calls quits on their relationship. This Rogue – my Rogue – is a woman who's been through hell and come out the other side. She's learnt some limited measure of control over her mutation. She's learnt the difference between loving someone, and being **_**in**_** love with someone. Yes, she has her insecurities, but I'd like to think that this Rogue is enough of an adult that, fiery temper aside, she'll deal with her relationship, and Remy's secrets, as an adult. Not a whiny-weepy-I'm-gonna-abandon-you-in-Antarctica-to-die way. ::coughs::**

**So, yes, 'Remy's married' is my first attempt to deal with a secret in a reasonable manner. Damaged as they both are, Remy and Marie are both intelligent, passionate people. I can only hope I do them justice.**

**If I owned anything of Marvel, the aforementioned Antarctica debacle **_**so**_** wouldn't have gone down like that. ::sniffs:: **

Rogue stares uncertainly at the door. Making the decision to come here and apologize was agonizing enough. She had been harsh, and perhaps she could have at least _listened_ to his reasons for her not accompanying him on this trip.

She snorts.

Yeah, right. Like he actually had reasons. Still, the public spectacle of their argument yesterday hadn't been planned, and, she's willing to admit, hadn't been wise. Hence apologizing.

Knocking is strange, she decides. After months of using his own skills to break into his room when he isn't around to swipe his clothing, the idea of asking permission to enter the room is. . . odd. She's almost certain the increasingly complicated locks he keeps installing are his version of a challenge, not an actual deterrent. After all, if he didn't want her in his room, he could always _tell_ her to stop breaking in.

As she stands in front of the plain, wooden, guest room door, she can't quite bring herself to knock. She hasn't been in his room while he's in it since before their relationship – before the summer, and Sinister, and all the radical changes three months had wrought. He came to her room – and not even that, not really. He came to her room while she was out and waited on her roof. Or he came to her window when she was in, and invited her to the roof, or the grounds or. . .

She frowns, not noticing the pattern before now. They hadn't been alone in a bedroom – his or hers – since. . . well, since.

Enough digressing.

Straightening slender shoulders, she raises a gloved hand to knock on the door. It opens before her knuckles touch wood. It's a close call to decide who's more surprised. Rogue recovers first.

"Rems, I. . . can I come in?" She chooses to believe the flicker of indecision on his features is purely her imagination.

He does step away from the doorway though, widening the door to let her through before closing it when she steps into the room. She doesn't have time to wonder why he stares at the closed door with such tension before she sees the suitcase on the bed.

Bastard. He was already packing. Rehearsed apologies flee in the wake of her rising anger. When she turns to look at him, he has the audacity to be smiling, leaning against the closed door.

"C'est pour toi, chere." He shakes his head, almost laughing at some internal memory. "Someone wise told me t'give in an' give you a present besides. Decided t'listen."

Anger leaches away quicker than it appeared. Unsure of herself, she approaches the bed, caressing the dark green leather. A matching garment bag lay beside it.

"You're not angry at my going with y'all anymore?"

He still hasn't moved from the door, but he answers in good enough humor.

"Still don't t'ink you should, but rather have you wit' me than trailing behind." A pause, and he sighs. "Shoulda told you 'was married a long time ago."

Rogue sits on his bed, tucking her hands under her thighs. Her lip twitches at his admission and she shakes her head.

"I coulda asked." She bites her lip, "At least asked what happened to the marriage any road."

When his eyes widen in surprise, Rogue decides he's adorable when she manages to take him off guard.

"You knew? How long?"

"Got some images of the ceremony the first time y'touched me. Long before. . ." She gestures between them. "'Fore we started any o'this. Picked up some pieces since then."

"M'first time in th' Danger Room. Th'explosion." Rogue's turn to be surprised.

"Y'remember?"

Most people wouldn't have – hell, had she been any other girl, it wouldn't be anything _to_ remember. He'd shielded her from an explosion, tucking her head against his chest, hunched so that his cheek rested against her forehead. The Cure'd been fading fast and she hadn't nearly the level of focus she could maintain now to choose her mutation's intensity. She'd been so surprised when he didn't flinch from her bare skin, she didn't even try, at first. A lot of images, thoughts, came through while she recovered from that surprise. Later, the nightmares came.

"Y'managed t'take down the funny lookin' robot wit' bot' my and Logan's powers. Hard t'forget." His eyes narrow at her, and she can see the question coming before he asks. "Thought you were mad 'cause of that. For not tellin' ya. What are you angry about?"

"You should've told me." But she shakes her head, that's not important now. "Not so much angry as worried."

He doesn't say anything, she stares at her feet before continuing.

"She's an assassin, Rem. How long've you been waitin for her to agree t'this? And now the papers come, with a three day pass on th'exile, no less. Ain't the timin' a little convenient?" Now that, for the first time since the wedding, he's in an actual relationship that might go somewhere. But she can't bring herself to say that part, not out loud. "Don' feel right, like y'all're walkin into a trap. An you were gonna do it without me."

"Preciate the support, chere, but I can handle anything the guilds throw at me. Been doin' it a long time." There's no male defensiveness in his tone, no hint of pricked pride, just a gentle statement of fact. "We done bein' angry now?"

Mute, she nods. Wishes he wasn't so far away, standing against the door while she sits on his bed. Wishes he was close enough to take comfort in his presence, feel the end of their argument, unable to make herself go to him. Silence looms for long minutes before she voices the other concern.

"She's beautiful."

A startled oath and his long legs have him kneeling before her in seconds. Taking her hands in his own, he forces her to meet his dark gaze.

"Ain't playin that game, Marie." A kiss to her knuckles before he continues. "Love you, an' you know it. Endin' that marriage 'cause it never really was, but ain't runnin out on ya."

"Well," Rogue flips her hair, trying for flippant and knowing she falls short. "A girl needs t'hear these things when a long lost wife comes out of the woodwork."

He chuckles low in his throat, letting her hands loose, resting his own on her thighs.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time."

"Next time?" She arcs a disapproving eyebrow at his lopsided grin. "I feel you should know, Remy Lebeau, mama didn't raise no polygamist."

"Suits me fine, chere." He leans upwards, face very close to her own, gaze fixed on her lips. Rogue can feel her breath hitch. "I never was good at sharin'."

The kiss is deep and feels like a promise. His lips on hers silence the tiny, bitter voice in the back of her mind that had been teasing her with questions and images of the blonde with a supermodel's body. She tangles fingers in his hair, cupping the back of his neck. Glad to be through with their fight, to feel his love for her through contact with his skin. His hands moving from her thighs to her hips are the end of angry words and hard feelings.

He breaks from the kiss, wearing a smile that doesn't disguise tension. She can see the effort it costs him to remove his hands from her, place them flat on the bed on either side of her instead, but doesn't understand the why.

"You, wicked girl, need t'no'be in m'room. No'on my bed." He ghosts a kiss on her forehead, the action much more gentle than the edge in his voice. "You've packing t'do. Long trip ahead've us, non?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Yes, short, I know, I'm sorry. But I'm posting two at once, and just gave you four yesterday, so that kinda evens it out, right?**

**There's a lot of information I wanted to clarify, just in case some of you aren't familiar with other x-men universes. Too, I wanted so badly to write the next chapter, I had difficulty fully investing myself in this one.**

**Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go talk privately with Belladonna for her big entrance. She's. . . demanding and fickle and keeps whispering at me. I have to make sure I set everything up right, because, well, she kills people for a living. ::gulps::**

**You know what? Screw it. Yes, I do own Marvel. In fact, I keep Stan Lee chained up in my basement beside Terry Pratchett, David Eddings, and Ani Difranco. And pigs fly on pretty little dragonfly wings. ::rolls eyes::**

Logan watches from the porch while Remy loads Rogue's jeep. The green suitcase makes him laugh.

"Woulda been faster if you flew." He comments, glancing sideways at the girl beside him.

"Not entirely certain of our welcome once we get there. Prefer t'have our own transportation just in case." She bumps him with her elbow. "Sides, a roadtrip'll be fun."

Remy's finished loading the suitcases and leans against the side of the black vehicle, cigarette materializing in his hand.

"He looks ready to go."

"He can wait a few minutes." She reaches into a pocket, looks hesitant when she faces him. "Have something for ya. Had it made at the mall back when I thought I'd have to chase him down one day." She takes his wrist in her gloved hand, dropping something metallic into his bare one.

Dog tags, the kind from one of those automated dispensers that were cropping up everywhere. One reads 'Rogue' the other, the name she's revealed to only two people at the institute. He closes his fingers around them, looking into her serious eyes.

"You're coming back for these?"

"Kinda the point."

"Good." He pockets her gift, understanding the significance. It had become habit over the years to leave his in her keeping every time he left the institute for a while. Unspoken promise of his return.

"I'll check in every day, let you know when we get there and when we're headin' back."

"M'not your father, you don't have to report." She makes a frustrated sound, and he looks at her more closely, trying to understand.

"No, you're not, but I got a bad feelin' about this." She brushes errant strands of white hair from her face. "Feel better knowin' you'll react if I don't call in."

"Think you'll need the team?"

"No," she sighs, peeking up at him through her bangs. "Probably just girlfriend-jitters about the ex-wife."

"We're a couple hours away by the blackbird. Thirty-six without a call, and I'll bring in some volunteers, nothing official." Her relief is obvious, and he wonders what she knows or suspects that he isn't aware of.

"Thanks, Logan." Slender arms come around his neck in a hug, and he pats her back awkwardly. "See you in a few days."

"Take care of yourself, and him." He nods towards the man outside. "He finds trouble easier than you do. That's sayin' something."

A musical laugh, and she's gone. Almost skipping up the driveway, she waves a final time before climbing into the driver's seat of the jeep he bought her nearly a year ago. Logan's still standing there long after the vehicle's out of sight.

He's in the same place hours later, when Ororo finally approaches him.

"If there is any path in the world he can take safely, it is the one that leads back to New Orleans."

"If there's any city in the world he can get himself killed in, it's New Orleans, 'Ro." He watches her from the corner of his eye, tries to decide whether or not to ask.

"He will not allow harm to come to her."

Logan shakes his head, wondering if allowing the two of them go off on their own is wise. It's not that he doesn't trust either of them to take care of themselves, but alone each had a talent for involving themselves in some of the most screwed up, dangerous messes possible. Together? He shudders.

"Don't get me wrong, but how do you know Remy?" Leaning against a column, he crosses arms over his chest. "A professional thief and card hustler doesn't strike me as the crowd you normally run with."

"Is it that surprising?" She passes close to him, leaning against the railing of the porch. "Would it be that shocking to learn I was not always the upstanding believer of Xavier's dream? That once, I led a different life?"

Logan doesn't answer. He tries to imagine the cultured woman before him participating in any of the life he knows Remy has led, and fails. Disbelief must be evident on his face because she laughs, elegant fingers suddenly waving a wallet before him.

His wallet.

"Some skills, it seems, do not fade."

"A thief?" He retrieves the battered leather, not bothering to disguise uncertain amusement.

"Pickpocket." A gentle correction, and her attention moves to the property, eyes seeing something in the past.

"Not guild, then."

"No, not guild. I was a child on the streets of Cairo, Remy not much older. He convinced his father to bring me back when they returned state-side, and I began training for the guild. The manifestation of my mutation prevented me from completing that path, brought me here instead."

Tendrils of mist begin to form, close to the manicured lawn.

"Have you had the opportunity to meet Belladonna, Logan?"

"Once." He'd done a job – Hong Kong? Madrid? Somewhere, and Remy'd been in the same city. At some point during the drinking, the blonde had come in, hell bent on killing the kid. "Didn't know at the time they were hitched."

"Their union was hardly a marriage. When I met Remy, he had already been engaged for a number of years." The mist is thicker, Logan wonders if he should mention it.

"He mentioned it was political – she's the assassin head's kid, same as he's the thieves." And somehow the wedding it's self was cause for his exile. Not that the kid particularly obeyed the mandate to stay out of the city.

"Both heirs to their guilds, the marriage was to end the war between." White hair bounces when she shakes her head. "Instead, during the moment other bridegrooms suffer a shower of rice, Remy found himself killing the bride's brother in a duel."

"Sounds like the kind of trouble he finds."

Only Remy could find a family in America that not only still practiced duels, but arranged marriages to be adopted into. In spite of that, he still refers to himself as lucky.

Wary, Logan eyes the substance he can no longer call mist. Swirling around his ankles, it's thick enough he has to call it a fog. At noon, on an otherwise sunny day.

"Uh. . . 'Ro?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: So. Yeah, those lines for Remy's POV on the rooftop? This is where they're coming in. Also, I hope, explains some of Remy's actions back in chapter 11. Eventually, I figure, this conversation had to happen.**

**This is the last of what I wrote while away from internet access. (This and 12 were partially complete when I got home) I think I need a little bit of a break before I tackle the next one, so no promises about an update tomorrow.**

**I am. . . currently too tired to come up with a witty disclaimer. I'll make it up to you next time.**

A lone, double bed. More than large enough for the two of them, Remy still considers asking at the desk about renting an adjoining room. It had been a long, exhausting day of travel. By time they'd agreed to stop for the night, he hadn't been thinking clearly and simply told the front desk he wanted a room for two.

Now, while she took over the bathroom for a shower, he realizes that he really should have specified two beds. If he manages to get through tonight, it's not a mistake he'll repeat.

There's a reason he meets her on the roof, in spite of her repeated, not-so-subtle hints about the dropping temperature and warmth of her room.

It's not that he's making assumptions about this particular facet of her history, no matter the nature of her mutation. Though it's not an issue at the moment, he's already thought of a few dozen ways around her mutation if ever her control. . . slipped. He can't be the first male to have thought of them. Too, there had been an entire year after she took the Cure, before it began to fail and before he arrived at the mansion. Though, now knowing who she'd been seeing at the time, he feels fairly safe in thinking they never got around to experimenting in that direction.

But no, he didn't make assumptions as to her history, and he sure as hell wasn't about to ask questions. Both would lead to questions and judgments about his own history, something he wants to avoid. Mainly to avoid discussing the very reason they're now traveling.

Christe.

There's water running in the adjoining bathroom, and Remy changes quickly, replacing his jeans with the black sweat pants she so often wears to spar. His tshirt is replaced with a long sleeved version. She may have control over the intensity of absorption, but she still couldn't turn it completely off, making layers prudent for sleeping.

He insisted on meeting her on the roof because she seemed inclined to take this aspect of their relationship slowly. The concept of a relationship is new enough to Remy that he's willing to take her lead, though it cycles back to the reason he meets her on the roof for private time.

No matter what else he may be, Remy was raised southern gentleman. As such, there's no way in hell he'll allow their first time together – whether or not it's her actual first – be on a gritty, shingled, exposed roof top. Maybe later on, if and when sex becomes a normal component of their relationship, the roof top and attached exhibitionary thrill it presents can be revisited. Until then, it provides him a measure of control the temptation of her bedroom, and therefore bed, didn't.

He scowls. Even when he's trying to do right by her, he can't win for losing. Away from the institute, away from the safety of the rooftop and Logan's suspicious nose, he's presented a lone double bed in a hotel far away from everything else in their lives. While on a trip south so that he can have a marriage that didn't even last long enough to warrant the name rubbed out of existence. Merde.

The shower clicks off, and he grabs the new pack of smokes from his bag. Propping open the hotel door, he steps onto the balcony over looking the parking lot. He's about to light his second when she finally comes out to join him.

"Hey, sug." Dieu. No woman has any right to look as good as she does fresh from a shower. She wraps her arms around his waist, entwining her fingers at his stomach and yawning into his shoulder. "Ready for bed?"

Sleep. He can do this, just sleep beside her. But when the light goes out, and she slides under the sheets beside him, he reaches for her. Intending to just hold her close in slumber, he doesn't pull away when she kisses him. When the kiss becomes a caress, and the caress starts to lead to something more, he doesn't have the will to pull away. By time she's above him, legs spilled on either side of his hips, he decides control can go to hell. He's cheerfully telling himself that a hotel room is not a rooftop, and that a gentleman never denies anything a lady desires, that of course is the moment she breaks the kiss, raising to sit above him.

"Remy, I. . ."

"S'ok, chere." He spooked her, and she's applying breaks. Well and good. He can handle this.

The next hotel is damn well going to have two beds.

"Not expectin' anything, not pushing for anything here. Jus' lost mehself for a minute."

Even in the darkened room, his night vision allows him to see her in detail. Head bowed, hair falling to cover her face, and arms crossed over her chest. Aside from straddling him, it's a position she adopts when she feels she has something to say and is afraid to say it.

"Marie? Really, we'll jus' get some sleep." She wriggles in his lap, which is all kinds of interesting and all kinds of _not helpful_.

"Arretez, please." The words come out a strangled moan, a plea. Not at all the command he intended.

"Need your attention here a moment, swamp rat." Her hair moves just enough for him to see the mischievous grin she wears.

"Trust me, chere, you got _all_ Remy's attention right now. Bout the only thing I can concentrate on.."

"Good, because I really don't know how to say this, so I need you to actually hear me, not just the words." She's silent a moment, he can feel her huff of a breath. "It's not that I haven't thought about. . . well, about this."

Small movement of her hips leaves no question as to what _this_ she means. Remy bites his tongue to get through the distraction of it, trying desperately to predict where she's going.

"It's just that. . .I haven't, ever. With anyone. And. . . and," She makes a frustrated sound Remy really wants to mimic, though he suspects for entirely different reasons. "You're married."

An oath, and he twists, dislodging her perch and sending her tumbling to lie beside him. He cups her face in his hand, close enough she can see him in the dark.

"S'why we're traveling. An' we've been over that – Belle and I never lived as man an' wife." His grasp becomes a caress when he speaks again. "As for the other. . . m'in no rush. Won't say I don'want to, but no' until you're ready. 'Less you make a habit o'wrigglin in dis one's lap. Ain't gonna be accountable fo'my actions if you keep that up."

He expects the soft push at his shoulder, is relieved to hear her laughter.

"In that case, sugar, I guess what I'm trying to say is that once this business with Belle is over with, I'd like to. . . wriggle."

Remy falls very, very still. He fell asleep in the jeep, is what it is. She's driving, and any moment he'll wake up with a stiff neck and a hard-on and have to face her mocking accusations of snoring. He'll fiddle with the radio, and when they do finally stop for the night he'll make damn sure to ask for two beds.

"Rems?" She trails a hand across his chest. "I just. . . don't want to be the other woman. I mean, I _am_ the other woman, which is kinda fun, but . . ."

He captures her hand, kissing each fingertip. On the off chance that he _isn't_ dreaming, he has to choose his next words carefully.

"Only woman, Marie. Not other, only." Her legs tangle with his, distracting him anew. A ragged sigh before he can speak again. "One t'ing at a time. For now, sleep, N'awlins, an th' annulment. Afterwards, if you're sure, we'll make a weekend of it. Rent a suite somewhere."

"An' not surface till I'm thoroughly . . . educated?"

Dieu. She'll be the death of him yet.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: Yeah. So I suspect you all clicked thinking 'Finally! What's going on in New Orleans!'**

**Er. I'm Evil? Sorry?**

**When I was a kid, my mother had only one real rule that breaking could result in punishment – Don't Get Caught. All other rules could be bent, twisted, or outright smashed so long as I obeyed that one concept. I've always thought Remy lived by something similar, hm?**

**Later Note: Something is wrong with the whole update alert thingy. I think Lizzieturbo had issues with this recently too. I am officially confused. So. . . yeah. Reposting this chapter until I get an update in my own inbox, cause this is just weird.**

Technically, anyone who wants to use the Danger Room for personal training just has to ask for it, and the next available time slot will be reserved. There's even a sign up sheet posted in the kitchen. Every morning, a schedule is emailed to both students and staff who have Danger Room privileges. Usually, the schedule includes several blocks of time reserved for last minute practices, open on a first come first serve basis.

As a long time resident of the mansion, Bobby knows all of this. He's taken advantage of it numerous times – to better hone a skill, take out his frustrations, even to show off for a girl. Technically, knowing how the system works means that there's no reason whatsoever for Bobby to be plotting to sneak downstairs hours after everyone's gone to bed in order to use the Danger Room.

Except. . .

Except it doesn't feel right – the simulation he wants to run, on his own, without a sanctified Adult – should be run on the sly, not in a proper, scheduled time with a time limit and all. In a way, if he can break in at a time he isn't supposed to be there, he'll feel as though he deserves to run the sim. Or so he tells himself.

Wardrobe is another point he has to consider. According to the rules, the uniform leathers are required for all Danger Room simulations. All part of the training regime and X-men team mentality, he thinks. Cyclops explained it to him, once, a long time ago, when he was still new and complaining about how the leather chafed.

What Bobby plans on trying tonight, though, isn't a team exercise. He's not sure if Headmistress Munroe would approve, maybe, but then, maybe not. Professor Summers would really go off the deep end if he found out about it, always a stickler for rules and standard operating procedures and lectures about why safety protocols are in place. He's even gotten worse since his return.

Finally, with a defeated shake of his head, Bobby makes a decision. He's already breaking rules, might as well go for broke. A dark, longsleeved tshirt, dark jeans, and worn sneakers are selected and put on. Dark, not black.

Memory of a lesson as he dresses, complete with proper accent – Black says 'look a' me, m'tryin' t'sneak.' Loo' casual, look like ya belon' an' no-one'll 'member ya was dere.

Ready now, he waits for a familiar, heavy step out in the hallway. Superior senses, yes, agility, strength and a history in sneak ops, yes. But also? Adamantium coated bones.

Bobby doesn't doubt that the man could be all silent stalking death if he wanted to, but around the mansion, even during hall checks, Logan's passage is marked by his heavy footsteps. No one voices out loud that this might be on purpose. As one of the residents who takes advantage of the unofficial version of after dark room visitation rule set, Bobby isn't willing to question it too closely.

When he finally leaves his room, he doesn't encounter anyone. Getting to the restricted basement and Danger Room doors is almost too easy. Still, Bobby doesn't wait in the hallway waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead, he hurries, getting inside and letting the doors shut noisily behind him before he allows himself to relax.

Well, maybe not relax. The lights are off – something he's never seen in the empty, metal room. It's kind of creepy, how dark it is. His breath echoes strangely, and he wonders, briefly, if the AI'll even respond with everything powered down like this.

He clears his throat, shuffles his feet and raises his voice to utter the command. Maybe he'll feel like a fool standing alone in the dark when nothing happens, but maybe. . .

"Computer, run simulation: Gambit: Stealth, subdirectory : mansion. Difficulty level two. Access code: Marie."

There's a hum, a click, and the lights still don't come on. Bobby's shoulders drop. At least there's no one here to witness the fail. He turns towards where he thinks the door is, takes a couple steps in that direction when the computer's voice sounds.

"Voice Recognition Complete. Subject: Iceman. Rerouting, Please Wait."

The lights still don't flicker, but Bobby can feel the difference in the room. No longer empty, metal walls, there's a texture. A something that tells him the space is smaller. Confused and on edge, he extends an arm, feeling rough wood, like a crate, maybe, in front of him.

"Figured one a' ya migh' try somethin' like dis."

Bobby knows the voice – just like he knows the glowing pinpricks of red are eyes coming towards him. His first thought is that he's caught. But that's not possible, it can't be Gambit, because Gambit's in a jeep heading south with Rogue.

A now familiar sound of playing cards against each other before one starts to light a brilliant magenta. Bobby blinks in the dim light, suddenly bright in the too dark of the room.

"Dina have a lot 'o time fer the programin. So ain't gonna respond iffin you gotta question. Th' program you tried t'open, ain't gonna run wit'out dis one. After 'bout level three, it gets to be a bit. . . lethal."

The glowing card is making sizzling noises, and Bobby's certain Gambit – hologram or not – is holding it the way he is just so that the glow will highlight how very creepily he smiles when he says that last word.

"De wolverine-sim in particular's a bit blood thirsty." The hologram removes the charge from the card, and Bobby's left blinking in total darkness again, except for the glowing eyes mere feet away. "We gonna star' wit'th basics. You in a maze, an if y'fin th' center, th' light'll come on."

Bobby turns, aware of where the crate-wall is, wondering which direction to take from here, and certain his hologram instructor isn't going to give him a hint.

"Couple ot'er things before y'start." Laminated cardstock against each other again. "If dis is scheduled 'Room time, y'won' get t'th center. Least, lights won' come on. If'n y'wearin' de uniform, the sim'll end once y'get there. If no' – well, dis one'll be waitin wit' more instructions, d'accord?"

The glowing eyes are gone, and Bobby's sure the hologram's gone to wherever the center of this thing is. Grinning – those last instructions a loud justification for the choices he's made leading up to this point – Bobby touches the crate wall again, ready to begin this kind new kind of lesson.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: So. . two things. **

**This chapter was supposed to be a paragraph. I mean, what happens in this chapter was supposed to be about a paragraph, and then move on to the bar. However, as usual, I left these two alone and they had other ideas. *sighs* So. . . next time they show up'll be a bar scene. Mhmm. There is Plot at the bar. Lurking, in a corner, with blonde hair and a knife. *nods decisively***

**As for the last chapter? I like Bobby. I really do. I think we ROMY fans often treat him badly so we can get him out of the way. Movie-verse didn't really help with the whole Kitty thing. But comic-verse Bobby is likable, honest. He's all prankster and angst and fun. I like writing his chapters because, compared to the other three characters I have going, he's so. . . light. **

**I forgot last chapter, and pretended, for a little over a thousand words, that I actually had some sort of ownership of the characters within. *sighs* 'Tis not true though. It's kinda like dog walking – sure, I get to hold the leash for a little while, but eventually the cute little puppy goes back to his real family. **

**Only, y'know, without the pay or the pooper-scooper.**

From the disjointed memories she's absorbed since meeting him, Rogue expected their destination to be the family home just outside of the city. Instead, once they hit the city limits, he guides her through to the Quarter, and a hotel. He doesn't offer an explanation, and she doesn't ask for one. No matter what she thinks she knows, this is his world, and she's willing to follow his lead.

When she really thinks about it, she might have an idea. He is under exile – and there's no way of knowing how far news of Belladonna's pass has gotten. Showing up in the heart of the tourist area, letting themselves be seen in public places, it'll allow the families time to get their facts straight. Let the family come to him, rather than risking the family by showing up on their doorstep.

In the room, he disappears almost immediately into the bathroom to change. Rogue sets her suitcase on the bed, wondering what kind of show he has planned, and whether or not she's packed an outfit that'll support it.

She thinks her theory is confirmed by his transformation. The comfortable grunge look she's grown accustomed to since his staying at the mansion is shucked. In it's place, when he emerges from the bathroom, he's wearing the card-hustler get up that took her breath away when he'd first showed up.

Black slacks, brilliant red collared shirt that nearly match his eyes. Should be softened by the dark-gray vest, or the fact that the shirt's unbuttoned at the throat. But no, by time he adds the distinct leather gloves and damn black fedora, he's all classy predator and she's seriously reconsidering the idea of waiting until annulment's dealt with.

After all, there's a bed, like, right there. A bed she is, in fact, currently sitting on.

Even his energy has changed, his movement. Always graceful, fluid, there's an extra something to the way he's checking his jacket pockets, something about him that's more sensual than the casual action has any right to be. Mouth suddenly very dry, there're a few false starts before she can speak.

"Look good sugar, should I be dressin' t'match?"

His attention is on her then, cocky grin in place as those velvet and gemstone eyes travel the length of her body. Inwardly, the part of her that is female and vain is trying to cringe under that heavy gaze – hair a frizzy mess in a loose ponytail, complete lack of makeup, baggy tshirt, worn, ripped jeans, grubby cotton gloves that may once have been yellow, and socks with cartoon animals on them.

The rest of her, the majority that's actually controlling her actions, suddenly understands why something small and furry that goes 'squeek' can be frozen, motionless, when it notices death in a sleek, smooth, feline shape.

Closing her eyes, she swallows. She hasn't reacted to just _looking_ at him like this since. . . well, since he first came to the mansion. When all his defenses were up because, other than Logan and Storm he didn't know how he'd be received, and he was using every trick he. . . wait a minute.

Bastard.

"Don't ya dare be tryin' that charm crap with me, swamp rat." Opening her eyes, her voice doesn't quite hold the snap she intends it to, but then, he's used the time to move much closer to her.

His grin is a little less smugly-smirk, a little more genuine and pride as he invades her personal space.

"Effects y'different, now, non?" His damn knee is between her legs on the bed. She leans back, trying to glare defiantly, knowing what she's actually managing falls far short of that goal. "Works by reinforcin' wha'ver positive feelin's a body might be havin' towar' dis one. T'ink y'positive feelin's mighta changed a bit since y'firs met dis one, oui?"

He follows when she leans, till she's laying flat on her back, and he's bracing himself with hands on either side of her head. Technically, he's not touching her, but he's close enough that his body heat is a force all it's own, nearly a caress across her skin. Knowing exactly what it is that he's doing makes it a bit easier to ignore, a little bit easier to think.

Enough, anyway, that she knows better than to admit this is exactly how he effected her back then. He'd be insufferable if he knew. Damn ego's big enough as is. The small, logical, cynical part of her brain wonders if part of this is revenge for the timing and position she chose for last night's conversation.

"Personal pronouns, Rem, use 'em." Ok, so it comes out breathy, more of a gasp than a dig, but it works.

His startled laughter as he eases back, retreating to sit in the desk chair instead of crowding her is a relief. While she catches her breath, he's _Remy_ again. Hotness personified, yes, dangerous, probably, but _Remy._

"S'bit o'reflex chere, par'o'th'costume." Long fingered hand plucks at the front of his shirt. "S'who I am, here."

"What, on with the hat, thickening of the accent, here comes the charm?"

"Prince o'Thieves, Marie. Give 'em what dey expect." A magician's pass of his hands, and he's holding onto a deck of cards, head tilted low enough the hat hides his eyes.

Rogue straightens, head to the side and arms across her chest.

"And where d'I fit inta this costume?" His shrug is eloquent, but she keeps silent till he actually vocalizes an answer.

"How d'y'wanna be introduced t'th'famille?" He's still hiding his eyes, which she does not like, at all. She doesn't doubt he's watching her closely though, so she doesn't let a movement betray her thoughts. "Soon as we hit th'streets, bot'guilds gonna know every alias y'ever tried 'fore dey approach us. Th'name y'give 'em though, that'll determine how y'treated."

Put like that, it's an easy choice. Easier still, since she never planned on going by anything else, here.

"Rogue, then, an' yours." His eyes are still hidden, but there's a pulse of a glow that tells her she spoke right, even if he's not going to tell her so.

"Y'sure chere?"

She turns her back to him in order to hide her smile, starts rummaging through the suitcase in order to keep her hands occupied. Nude stockings, leather gloves, black, square-neck, tshirt dress that only falls to her mid thigh. The black, knee high doc martins should complete the outfit nicely.

"Marie's a nobody country gal from no-where, Mississippi." Make-up bag, where the hell's her makeup bag? "Any other name's so underdeveloped it ain't worth contemplatin." Aha! Outside pocket – with her hair brush. "But Rogue? Rogue's a kick-ass X-man trained by the Wolverine."

No doubts that name's known in these circles. The underbelly of the world's a small place too. She removes her gloves before turning to face him, finding that he hasn't moved at all during her search.

"But most importantly, Rems? Rogue's the only match for your Prince of Thieves persona."

He looks up at that, confusion on his features. Good to know she can still catch him off guard sometimes. She pulls the scrunchie from her hair, shaking her head.

"Who's the real thief here, sugar? The man who steals shiny baubles and women's hearts?" She lets her smile turn fierce, lifting fingertips in his direction. "Or the girl who steals folks very souls with a touch?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: I think I finally have to admit I could use a beta. *shifts her gaze* Currently, I write a chapter, run spell check, post the chapter. Repeat when possible. *shuffles her feet* The thing is, I feel pathetic and stupid asking for such a thing – just as I feel pathetic and stupid if I ask for reviews. So. . uh. . this is me just kinda putting the information out there, yeah?**

**Oh look, shiny plot point on the way. **

**Mhm. Shiiiiinnny. **

***rubs her forehead* Eventually, that is, first Remy took over and starting thinking things I didn't plan on, but it's ok. Rogue sets him straight. *nods* She's good like that.**

**I have been to several of the places mentioned – and in my mind, if you wind up in New Orleans, these are some of the things that have to be done. Unfortunately, still without the ownership, but I think I have a plan to start some negotiations on that.**

Arm around her waist while they walk, hand resting on the swell of her hip, Remy muses that it shouldn't be such a turn on that she understood so quickly the rules of the game he has to play here. He didn't have to waste time explaining what he needed her to do for both their safety.

For that matter, it shouldn't be a turn on that she managed to fight the effects of his charm like she did. Not entirely, no, but managing to snark at him, even on a breathy moan, is remarkable when he was using everything he could to make her melt.

It's a short walk from the hotel to Café du Monde for beignets and café au lait. He steers her towards Jackson Square and spots the first tail while she oohs and aahs over pieces of art. At the Cathedral he finds the second, but neither approach, keeping enough distance he isn't sure who they are, only that they're following.

Absinthe in Pirate's Alley, bartender dressed for the part and explains some of the history of the green drink she prepares for them. Rogue's enthralled, says it tastes like licorice, he orders her another.

Thieves, by the way they move, not assassins. He isn't sure how he feels about that. If they're newbies, then the news hasn't traveled yet and Belle's gonna have some explaining to do. If they're former companions, why the hell haven't they approached?

It's still early evening, barely dark but he's getting tired of the wait-and-see game. Tugging her hand, he leads Rogue away from the live music and through a nondescript door. She accepts the new direction without question, green eyes wide with happiness and a little glassy with intoxication.

Maybe two of the green fairies wasn't his best idea. He has no idea how she handles her liquor, and absinthe hits like nothing else.

There's a fair representation of both Guilds here, and while nobody reacts in any noticeable way to their entrance, he feels the room get closer, smaller as he's recognized. Rogue's either oblivious, or better at playing than he anticipated.

There's a small stage in the back corner of the bar, three piece blues band playing on stage. Her smile is positively wicked when she notices, turning her face to his, gloved fingers trailing down his cheek.

"Dance wi'me, Remy?"

How can he object?

He sheds his jacket and her purse at a table, leads her to a small space before the stage. Her movements are altogether too sultry, too damn knowledgeable for the innocence she confessed the other night. Pleased, he pushes her further, their dance quickly exceeding merely suggestive into something that ought to be breaking several, if not all, of the city's indecency laws. The band's loving it, playing specifically to their dancing, simplistic call and answer lyrics heavy with innuendo.

Something must show on his face, because when he pulls her out of a dip, she explains.

"Psyches, sugar." Her hips fit snug against his own, near bare thigh slipping between his legs. "Mind's more'n experienced, even if m'flesh ain't caught up. . . yet."

Dieu. He's supposed to be concentrating on something else. Something about being followed. . .

Tipping his hat to the band, he sweeps her back to the table, pointedly ignoring her laughter. Trying to regain some of the gentlemanly charm he's known for here, he pulls a chair out for her before nearly falling into one himself. But if he thought to use sitting as a way to regain some of the blood flow to his brain, that plan's thrown away when she takes up residence in his lap. At least until she speaks.

"Three," Her lips are close to his ear, and it's a moment before he can connect what she's saying to anything that makes sense. "Since the Cathedral. Two male, one female. The boys're workin' together, but the woman took off before you brought us in here."

"You, mademoiselle," Traces along her lower back, doesn't bother hiding his grin, "Are amazin'." He hadn't noticed the woman – which either speaks to his getting lazy, or the slightly jealous streak he's noticed in her before.

"Am thinkin' they ain't approachin' cause of me. Unknown an' all." Her hands dip to his waist, and he knows his eyes are burning. "Think maybe if'n I wander off t'the bar t'get us drinks they might show 'emselves?"

He gives in, kisses his tricksy, fiery woman, so full of surprises that even here, in his own city, she's managing to keep him half off balance.

"S'worth a shot."

In that moment, while she climbs out of his lap and straightens her skirt, he's hit with it. How wrong this all is, she doesn't belong here. He shouldn't have let her come here.

It's a guild standard, this bar. Dark, grungy, dirty and just as filled with smoke as it is music. There's a greasy layer of age and sin on every surface, it's his kind of place. He belongs here just as firmly as he belongs in this city. But her. . .

Alright, yeah, she's trying. Her hair a teased mass of wild curls, smokey dark makeup and shit kicking boots. The square neck of her dress displays an ample amount of cleavage, and when she presses close to him her skirt is short enough that his hand lands on stocking rather than the dress.

"No need'a askin' what you want, darlin." Her hot hands trail around his waist, she plants a kiss against his neck and winks before she's gone. His eyes follow her rear as she sashays to the bar.

She's just so _good_. And it glows through the clothing she's wearing as a costume. Antithesis of this place, of this life, she's a shining, bright light in this dark criminal den, and he had no right to drag her into this. He has no right to taint that goodness. She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be with _him_.

She's so young, and he hasn't been that young in a long, long time. Hands drift into his pockets, looking for his cards, instead finding a scrap of fabric. Remy freezes when he realizes exactly what she's slipped into his pocket.

Good? His chere is a _twisted tease_. Eyes narrowed, he refocuses on the skirt of her dress, thief's eyes for detail when she bends over the bar to relay their table's orders.

That's a garter strap.

She slipped her panties into his pocket, and she's wearing stockings with garters. Remy's fist clenches around the scrap of delicate fabric in his pocket.

Across the room, she meets his gaze, and he can _feel_ her laughter. It's pure, joyous, and he's back on firmer ground. One naughty move does not erase the fact that she's so damn innocent. He's still a bad, bad man for even thinking about the things he wants to do to her right now.

_She slipped her panties into his pocket._

Drinks balanced precariously, she starts back towards the table, taunting tilt to her hips. Remy Lebeau is still trying to reconcile _panties in his pocket_ with good, pure, young and innocent when the whole idea is scraped.

She passes a rowdy table, and he sees the hand reaching for her. He's on his feet and moving before it lands, ignoring his companions' questions, but there's no way he'll get to the other table before she reacts.

It's her reaction that finally silences that niggling voice of guilt every time he touches her, every time she declares her love for him. Swift, vicious and immediate, there's no doubting her training now. The expression on her face when he finally reaches the scene might be described as 'pure' but only if 'murderous rage' is tagged onto it.

_Panties in his pocket_ and capable of great violence, how exactly, did he doubt how perfect she is for him?

Now, if only the arm she was trying to dislocate wasn't branded with an Assassin's Guild Mark.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: Apparently, Remy isn't the only member of the Guild who'll steal control of a scene and go in another direction on me. *grumbles* We're **_**still**_** not where I planned to be, and there's a blonde lady in the shadows every time I leave the house now. I think she's getting impatient. *looks over her shoulder nervously***

**In other news, this will be the last unedited chapter I post. *crosses her fingers* Would have sent this one to the lovely, patient, and indulgent Heavenmetal first, but there's this voice in my ear cackling and repeating the phrase 'white devil's mistress' over and over. This is going up so that he cackles in your ears instead of mine.**

**I am hiring the Thieves Guild to steal the rights to these characters for me. We've hit a snag in negotiations, as they seem reluctant to accept my hand made chocolate espresso truffles as payment. They keep asking for money instead. Pfft. What culinary student has money?**

Remy's expression when it dawns on him what she'd been up to with her hands at his waist is priceless. _Make a show,_ he'd told her. It held enough undertones of _Trust dis one, an' make it look good_ that she was willing to comply. The places he took her to, experiences he was giving her made it easy to play a happily smitten tourist. The problem was. . .

The problem is that when he'd changed his clothing, he'd changed his entire _manner_, and she's not sure what she thinks of this Prince of Thieves persona he's tied on like one of the masks they'd looked at earlier. Taking him by surprise – like the underwear trick – is the only time she's able to see her Remy again. She needs that occasional glimpse in order to keep up their pace.

The bartender gestures for her attention, she smiles, pulling money out from the side of her neckline. Money's on the left, cell phone's on the right. Women's clothing doesn't often have pockets – one of many reasons she normally sticks to jeans – but a bra is just a different kind of pocket, right? Collecting the drinks – a hurricane for herself, bourbon for her Cajun – she starts to saunter back to the table.

When Rogue first approached the mighty Wolverine about training, he'd immediately started by pointing out her small size. Without her powers and without previous experience, she'd have to rely on leverage until she'd built herself up. To that end, the first several grueling months of her training had been centered around how to use someone else's movement, an opponent's strength, rather than her own. Those lessons were harsh, painful, and succeeded in instilling proper reactions into her muscles as instinct.

So when the drunken tourist by the bar tries to grab her, those early lessons are what penetrate her happy alcoholic buzz. Because with a solid understanding of leverage, it takes only a grip here, a step to the side like _this_, a twist and shift of weight like _so. . . _and a petite girl can have a man thrice her size face down on a table with his arm twisted painfully behind him.

"Now, Ah ain'xactly sure," She drawls, drinks a scattered puddle of liquid and broken glass at her feet, "But Ah 'member readin' somewheres how it only takes a'coupla pounds'a pressure t'break a bone. Whad'y'all think? Wanna test that there theory?"

Remy's at her side, unsurprising, he was probably moving before she was. The two men who've been tailing them for hours are moving in to either flank him or surround him. There's something off about his stance, something that isn't Remy and isn't the Prince of Thieves, something. . .

"There a problem here, mes amies?" It's the tone of voice that clues her in.

"Diable blanc – control y'woman." One of the men who isn't currently being pinned demands. "Or we'll tell _her_ where t'find y'. Tell y'pere y'r breakin' th' exile – again."

If the voice wasn't enough, the knuckles he drags across her hair and down her spine are. It's not the way he normally touches her, none of the love or even desire, none of the _heat_ that normally infuses his every contact. This is _cold_, impersonal. It's how he touched her in the labs, when convincing the Marauders of her slavish devotion to him was the only thing that kept them from killing her, more than once.

Every part of her that's independent, a modern woman, a _fighter_ should be screaming at this treatment, like she's a possession, an accessory. But she trusts him, trusts that if he's summoned up Sinister's Death from his bag of tricks, it means she's made a mistake. A mistake that might just get them both killed if she doesn't follow his lead.

"Pere knows." It's the older of the two men, arms crossed, behind and to the right of Remy.

"An' s'y'own bosslady who gave 'im the pass." Says the younger, from his left.

Thieves then, their stalkers. And on their side. Evens it out to four against four, if it comes down to that. If the rest of the bar stays out of it. Sudden hostility of the room makes that last one a big 'if'.

"Th'fille, she don'like bein' touched, n'est pas?" And that's her cue to let go of the man's arm, which she does. His hand doesn't move from the base of her spine, so she turns, sliding to twist herself sinuously against him. "Sometimes, her reactions c'n be a bit. . . extreme."

"They made me drop y'drink, darlin'," Her pout's exaggerated, but she turns under his arm, so that his hand's resting on her stomach. "Purely hate that."

The younger Thief's discipline isn't nearly steady enough, she decides. From the corner of her eye she can see him twitch, like he's trying too hard not to laugh. Which can only mean he actually knows Remy, if he's not buying the show.

His hand hasn't broken contact, and she rests her own on his forearm. Aware as he must be of her position, he's not reacting, focused instead on the table of what she's now sure have got to be assassins. Lord, how could she have been clueless enough to start this?

"Y'done made her sad, hommes. Dis a situation dat needs t'be remedied." Rogue can hear the card flipping through the fingers of his free hand, can feel the other two thieves shift their stance.

"Y'r'not really gonna support this?" That's the voice of the one who tried to grab her. He's speaking to the two behind them. "Ov'r an exile's putain?"

It takes a minute for Rogue to realize that the beserker-wolverine growl is coming from her own throat. By time it does register that it's hers, she's been shoved towards the older thief, who deftly catches hold of her covered wrist.

There's a small explosion behind her, enough to tell her Remy's engaged before she can get turned around to watch. She tries to jerk her wrist free, move to help in the fight, but the fully gloved hand on her own is steady.

"Poor choice o'words, dat." The younger one, and he sounds almost bored, watching as Remy lands a high kick to the chest of one, ducking under a fist from behind. "I mean, 'maitresse' even, mi'no'a pissed 'im off so bad."

"Pardon, mademoiselle." Her captor gestures at her wrist. "Mais, dis is somethin' he has to take care of hisself."

"He's outnumbered!" She tugs her arm again, snarling. "Let me go!"

"No' really." He pulls her a couple steps back, in time that the body landing on the floor hits where they would have been standing, rather than crashing into them. "If'n dey was actual Rippers, maybe."

"But dese fous," The younger one pokes at the prone form with his shoe. Either the man's unconscious, or planning to escape more punishment by staying down. "So low on de food chain, dey don't know what's goin on."

It's then that Rogue realizes that in spite of the potential for violence in the air that had been escalating since her reaction to an unexpected, and unwelcome, touch, only Remy and the small group are actually moving. There aren't even any bouncers moving in to stop the fight, in spite of one man, bloodied, crawling away, asking for help.

"They know enough t'know he's exiled." She watches Remy execute a flip, leg swinging out to kick one of the two remaining opponents into the other. "An' who th' hell are y'all, anyway?"

"Pfft." The one not holding her waves his hands in the air. "He been exiled f'seventeen ans. Even les bebes know _dat_." Turning to her, familiar twinkle in his eyes, he captures her free hand, pressing his lips to it's back. "Emil, at y'service. Cousin t'our star trouble maker o'er dere, and thief extraordinaire."

"He's still a show off. Coulda been done wit' dis quick, but he's playin." The older man shakes his head, turns to Rogue and lifts her wrist to eye level. "Will let y'go if y'promise t'stay put."

Nods her head, not happy but acutely aware that there're political games going on she's ignorant of. For now.

"Bein." He releases her wrist, offering his hand for a shake instead. "Henri Lebeau, and oui, regretfully, dat means de spotlight hog back dere's mon frere. Tis an embarrassment, an' a cross I hav'ta bear."

Rogue takes the hand, smile tugging at her lips.

"Rogue, an apparently, th'white devil's mistress."

Emil's gleeful laughter is loud, but quickly swallowed by a final crash. She returns her gaze to Remy, standing in a showman's pose by no fewer than three broken tables. His hat isn't even displaced, which means he's tilting it low to cover his eyes once again, touching fingers to the center of its brim. Cards fanned out in his free hand.

"Alright, anyone else got somethin' t'say 'bout th'fille?"


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: The Dungeon's a real bar. House cocktail is called 'midnight potion'. I do not advocate the type of drinking mentioned in this, or the next few chapters. *grins* And we won't mention my own behaviour in the city our couple is rampaging through. **

**Yeah, ok so normally, the French I use is pretty simple, and I'm assuming y'all can figure it out by context. I use a full sentence this time around though, so what Remy says later on is essentially: Little girl, remember what's in my pocket before you climb the cage in that skirt!**

**I own several plastic, souvenir cups from the Dungeon. This has no bearing whatsoever on my lack of ownership rights to the place, or for that matter, Marvel. Sigh. **

It's the kind of bar he likes, it's also damn hard to find in a place as hoity-toity as Westchester. A far cry from the country clubs and dance clubs most of the area is filled with, it's a blue collar bar, and he fits in without a second glance. Even in this neighborhood, the folk who do the actual work need somewhere to drink.

The beer's cheap, cold, and sold by the bottle. They even started bringing in 'Bleu since he's been coming here. Bartender knows to send him a shot with every third. Hockey on two of the three televisions, no sound. Click of pool balls, classic rock, a dull murmur of conversation.

The ring tone is loud, obnoxious, and seriously out of place in this joint. Logan scowls. Damn kid stole his phone, programmed her own personal ring tone into it, and he hasn't the faintest clue how to change it back. He'd taken it to Forge, but the Maker'd laughed right in his face and refused to change it for him. Considered asking either Kitty or one of the other kids running around – they all seemed to understand these gizmos instinctively – but wasn't sure if he wanted any of them to know "Can't Touch This" played every time Rogue called his cell. Somehow, even when he thought he had the blame thing on silent.

What good's top-of-the-line equipment with Chuck's money when they come with more buttons and functions and these app things than a man can comprehend?

The ring tone stops. Logan grunts, finishes his beer and has just enough time to catch the bartender's attention before it starts again. This time he answers it.

"It's long after curfew, Stripes. Go to bed."

"Ain't a'school, no curfew in N'Awlins." She giggles, he can hear some sort of heavy metal or something in the background. "Soma th'bars never even close t'all."

"Cajun showin' ya a good time?" Gestures for another beer, money flat on the bar.

"Yup. Met some o'his family. They even showed me the wall he blasted ya through first time ya met." Another giggle.

"Got no recollection of such a thing." Doesn't mean it's not true.

"Y'take all the fun outta the mockin' when that's likely so, y'know." He'd almost believe her mournful tone if she didn't break it with yet more giggling.

"Yer drinkin."

"Am not!"

"You can't lie t'me, even when yer sober, kid." She doesn't say anything, just huffs out a breath in response. He can hear a muffled male voice ask who she's calling. Another one swear, asking where she got the phone if he's holding her purse. Logan grins.

"Let me talk t'gumbo a minute."

"Y'ain't any fun, Logan."

"Put Remy on the line, darlin, and go dance t'that music I hear."

Logan's beer arrives, with a shot, while he's waiting for the exchange. He downs the whiskey before the voice finally greets him.

"Allo?"

"You got her drunk."

There's a long silence. Well, almost a silence. There's still music in the background, and good natured shouting. Logan sips his beer, still grinning.

"Peut-être." Another beat of silence. "Dat answer'll depend entirely on y'reaction t'th'idea of her bein' a bit intoxicated."

Logan suspects he knows what the Cajun's thinking, and he wishes it didn't surprise him. Most inhabitants of the mansion would be having similar thoughts. Yes, he was protective of the girl. Her in danger tended to evoke a reliable, violent reaction. On the other hand, he wasn't her keeper, he was her _friend_, no matter what assumptions _some_ people made about their age difference and the nature of that friendship.

He also knew her, and not just the facet she let show up at the mansion.

"'Ro ever tell you why she banned alcohol from the school?"

"May have mentioned a still, an' 'spectin' a student built it."

"More like, I covered her ass and claimed the mash overwhelmed whatever scent left by our girl."

"Aucune merde. Ain'dat somethin?"

"Yeah, well. She ain't half as drunk as she's lettin' you think, but make her start drinking a bottle of water in between whatever else she's havin."

"Y'ever hear o'a midnight potion?" The words are long and drawn out, as though the speaker isn't quite certain if they should be out loud. "S'pure grain alcohol an' koolaid. T'ink she's 'ad four, since we got here."

Logan rolls his eyes, sipping his beverage.

"I've seen her down a fifth a'Crown under an hour and still pass one of 'Ro's sobriety checks. She's not as drunk as she's lettin' on."

Remy lets out a low, long whistle.

"She don't drink often, but when she does. . ." He still can't stop grinning – for once, he's not babysitting the little hellcat when she decides to tie one on. He's also not the one who'll be paying for damages by the end of the evening. "Don't know if it's from absorbing me so often over the years, or the southern country gal thing, but girl's got tolerance."

"Hold dat thought, mon ami." Remy might be trying to muffle the phone, but Logan still hears the words he calls out, even if he only barely catches the meaning. "Petite fille, se rappellent ce qui est dans ma poche avant tu montée le camp dans cette jupe."

There's laughter mixed with swearing, and he guesses the phone's being passed off yet again.

"It appears y'frien's are a bit preoccupied. If y'call 'em tomorrow, dey may or may no' member tonight, but m' sure y'can sort'all out." A crash, giggling, "I don' suggest callin' too early."

"Did he just mention a cage? Where the hell'd that crazy Cajun take my girl?"

"Monsieur, we in d'Dungeon. S'a goth bar. Th'wall m' leanin 'gainst is covered floor t'ceiling in t'ree dimensional skulls. Oui, il y a black steel cages as sittin' booths. Not dat those two're sittin"

"You sound relatively sober and sensible."

"In dis company, I 'aff t'be. Une minute." The stranger's voice rises, "Emil, zut alors, stop encouragin' dem. An get down offa dat table 'fore we're kicked outta here too."

Logan laughs outright at that, earning strange look from his own bartender. He takes another drink in order to stifle it.

"Y'mus be th'one wit'th'claws. Th'one dey call de wolverine?"

"And you've gotta be the family Rogue mentioned meeting. Look, do yourself a favour," He takes pity on the hassled sounding man. "She needs a bottle of water between each drink for the rest of the night. And keep her away from tequila if you can at all help it."

"Why? It make her clothes fall off?"

"You ain't got no way of knowin this," The mirth has disappeared from his face, fingers tapping heavy on the wooden bar in front of him. "But yer relative and I have something of an agreement. In that, his continued breathin' is largely dependent of my never, ever havin' to think of him any where near her unclothed state."

"Y'realize de girl's datin' Remy Lebeau, correct? An' y've met him?"

"Said I don't want t'think about it. Don't care about the reality so long's I don't have t'confront it." Another taste of his beer. "Tequila makes her mean."

"Fair 'nuff. Though it mi'be too late on dat score, when I met th'fille, she was doin' a right fine job o'tryin t'remove a man's arm wit'her own hands."

"Good girl. Was it yer kinda trouble, or normal pretty girl in a bar trouble?" He raises his eyes to one of the television screens – he's not even sure who's winning anymore. The pause on the other end is heavy, and Logan's uncertain if the stranger'll answer.

"Not sure. He wasn' high enough up in the ranks t'be makin' real move 'gainst Remy. But it wasn'in th'kind o'place y'make a casual grab, no matter how pretty th'girl. Tu comprends? Th'kinda place pretty girls 'ave a tendency t'react jus'th way she did."

"Think I do at that, bub." He finishes the last of his beer, waving the bartender off from bringing another. "Look, she had a bad feelin' about all this 'fore leavin. She's callin' every twelve hours or so, an if she misses one I'll be down there quick as I can. She thinks I'll wait thirty-six, but if you suspect somethin's goin down. . ."

"Already got y'number. I get anythin' concrete, y'll know 'fore we move."

"Good." Logan stands, dropping a bill on the bar as a substantial tip before heading for the door. Good humour this conversation started in long gone. "Take care of those two."

"Bien sur, mon ami. Been a pleasure meetin' y'" Before the line goes dead.

By time he drags himself back to the mansion, he knows he's skipped more than one of his regular hall checks. He won't hear the end of it in the morning unless he at least goes through the motions now.

Girls' wing is clear, everyone where they're supposed to be as far as he can tell. This makes the current scene in the boys' all the more puzzling. A six pack of labatt bleu on ice in a cooler where the ice-cube should be sleeping. Hand scrawled note only advises him that there could be more if he doesn't ask any questions.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: Hah! Forgot this bit entirely. Heh. **

**The Ambassador Hotel is on the corner of Lafeyette, and the lyrics by Paul Simon I have Rogue and Emil singing were stuck in my head the entire time I was a guest there. *shakes her head***

**Also? Ownership continues to be lacking. **

"Obv'sly, y'aint goin' back t'th hotel." Henri's tone is final, a voice used to making decisions, having orders obeyed. A voice that is the eldest son of his Guild's patriarch.

It's also the voice of an older brother. An older brother who's spent the evening trying to corral two men accustomed to trouble and a spit fire slip of a girl. Remy's lost count of how many, but he's proud to think they've been escorted out of every bar, club, and liquor selling hole in the wall the group's entered this night.

"Got to, ma belle's left all 'er thins in our room." The girl in question jabs his ribs, hard, from her position under his arm.

"Do _not_ refer t'meh by the diminutive of yer soon t'be ex-wife's name, swamp rat." He catches her eyeroll. Mental debate as to whether the attitude or the fact that she can still get her mouth around the word 'diminutive' is more impressive. "Y'gonna give a girl a complex with that."

"Desole, mon amour." Emil's snicker is easily answered by a slap upside his head. Attention back to the initial statement he adds, "Poin' remains tha'bot'our luggage is sittin' at th' Ambassador."

At that, Rogue breaks into song. Remy thinks it's Paul Simon, and gladly hands her off to Emil who seems to know the same words. Henri's stopped walking to glare at the both of them.

"Y'think I don' know where y'checked in? Y'been makin' a mess since y'hit town, Remy. Sent som'one 'roun t'pick up y'stuff, an' y'jeep après dat firs'fight." An exasperated look while he rubs the back of his neck. "What th'hell y'tryin t'do?"

Emil's swept Rogue into a two-step up the sidewalk, both of them singing, surprisingly in key. Remy turns to face his brother.

"At first, was just tryin' t'draw out whoever'd approach. Took y'long 'nuff." Pats his pocket, looking for the newly purchased pack of cigarettes he's pretty sure came from a machine at their last stop. "But y'right. Dose assassin's. . . didn'feel right. Th'whole scene felt wrong, once it was y'two who're followin'."

"Like a set up? S'what I was thinkin'." Henri hands him the pack he'd confiscated almost immediately after purchase. "S'why y'ain't goin' back t'the hotel. Y'stuff's in a safe house no'too far fr'm here."

Remy lights a smoke, eyes on the two still dancing in the street. Emil's somehow segued into a Cajun classic, both laughing as he tries to teach her the words while still leading her through the steps. He takes a long drag before shaking his head.

"Been tryin' t'spring th'trap, but nuthin's bitin." Puff of smoke from his lungs, the nicotine feels _good._ "She says dere was a woman followin' too, was Merci wit'ya earlier?"

Henri's turn to shake his head.

"Like she'd tol'rate half'a what y'been up t'tonight. She on a job, won' be back till mornin'." A very pregnant silence as both men watch Rogue correct Emil's stumble. "Dere's anot'er woman wi'an interest in y'an ta petite."

"S'what m'fraid of. An' waitin' f'us in our room's just 'er style." Rogue breaks away from her dance partner, striding purposefully back towards him with the same wicked smile she used to ask him to dance. "D'accord. 'Ave jus' one question 'bout this safe house o'yours."

Henri doesn't respond, but his expression is vaguely impatient. Trying very hard to sound casual, and not at all desperate, Remy crushes the cigarette butt under his shoe. It's been a wild night.

"Jus' how many bedrooms dis place got?"

"Y'aven't changed a bit." A slug to his arm communicates either frustration or half admiration, Remy's never sure which. Either way, his brother's misinterpreting his words. "Talkin' 'bout possible Assassin plots, an' y'r t'inking wit' y'third leg. C'mon, Emil an' I'll walk y'there."

She's in his arms before he gets the door completely closed behind them, laughing, top of her head nudging the brim of his hat. Turns her lips towards his in an offer, and he'd be twice the fool not to take it.

"You," His fingers have a mind of their own, slipping under her skirt to play with the edge of lace stocking that marks a barrier to bare skin. "Are sleepin' in a dif'rent room," Lips across her jaw and down her neck. "An lockin' th'door."

Her response is a low, throaty chuckle, ending on a gasp when he uses teeth against a particularly sensitive spot. She raises her leg, hooking her knee on his hip, sending his hand to slide against her bare rear.

"Cause a locked door has stopped y'all so often in th'past." Her hands are in his hair, knocking off his hat, positioning him for another kiss before he can respond. A stumble of a step and he has her against the hall wall, trapping her with his torso, lifting her off her feet, before he breaks the kiss.

"T'pick th'locks in a T'ief safehouse," He lifts her other leg to his waist, presses into her when her ankles lock. She's busy untucking his shirt, unbuttoning his vest. "I need t'be lucid. Lucid 'nuff I'll remember _why_ y'sleepin' in a dif'rent room."

"If'n ain't what I want?" She nips sharply at his ear, and he hasn't a choice but to return to her lips, losing himself for long moments in the wet heat of her mouth. She's a writhing pool of _want_ against his empathy, and he can't tell how much of it is her own, how much she's absorbed from him. He really wishes he didn't care.

"Dit encore," He rests his forehead against hers, digging his fingers into her hips to still them against his own. Breath ragged, shallow, he tries to vocalize the thought a second time. "Tell me dat again when y'haven't been drinkin."

"So damn noble. Seems everyone's out t'warn me of what a scoundrel ya're, Rems." He starts to move away from her, enough to ease her feet back to the ground as she speaks. "Even yer own kin. Don't none of 'em get t'see this part o' ya?"

Pretty certain she slows her decent deliberately, an excuse to slide the length of her body against his. Friction of fabric enough to hike her dress up further, and he doesn't bother to bite back the moan it evokes.

"No one else s'daft 'nuff t'spect honour from dis t'ief, river rat." He presses the taunting piece of black satin from earlier into her hand, taking half a step back. "Please, f'th'love o'god, change y'damn clothes 'fore I go an' prove 'em all right."


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: Bwahahahaha! Plot, PLOT I tell you! *points* I finally got plotty. It's only taken me, what. . . 20 chapters? *blinks* Oops? **

**I do own the pajamas mentioned below. . . . but nothing else. Isn't that pitiful?**

Rogue knew his reputation before they got. . . involved. She'd seen him at the mansion, flirting with any one who'd respond, even a few who wouldn't. Always pushing, pushing to make even the most innocent of interactions steamy, charged. In those short days between his arrival and all hell breaking loose, she'd seen the side of him everyone's been warning her about since the aftermath.

He'd return from bar nights with Logan with his collar and skin stained in different colours of lipstick. Perfume faint under his own intoxicating scent, just strong enough to be noticed. Different phone numbers scrawled up his arms in ink and marker, and still he'd flirt, banter, proposition. The bar return has stopped since they started, the flirting has only dimmed.

Still, in spite of all the truth she's seen and been told, this is how he treats her. With respect, with care, always fighting with himself in order to do what he thinks is right. He doesn't bother lying about what he actually wants, impossible to do when every touch, no matter how brief in these moments, bombards her with blush-worthy images of exactly how far he wants to go. That knowledge eases the feelings of rejection she's currently suffering.

Still, Rogue can push buttons too, and sometimes his buttons are large, candy red and shiny.

"Are y'all suggestin, Mr. Lebeau, that Ah change inta something more. . . comfortable?" Judging by the glow of his eyes intensifying, and the groan as he backs away, hands up in surrender, the corny line works. Her skin protests the loss of his hard heat immediately.

"Oui, exactement. Confortable." An authoritative finger in her direction, "Y'changin int'th' pajamas wit'th'looney toones cat on 'em. De ones y've washed so often dey're pink. Don' even try t'tell me y'havn't packed em."

"Purple, Rems." She huffs in response, hand not currently holding a pair of underwear raising to her hair. "Really _pale_ purple. Though I reckon I could use a shower. Hairspray makes for a right bitch of a tangle."

She would have left it at that, gone about her preparations for bed without needling him any further if she didn't catch him swallow, hard, at the word 'shower'.

"A soapy, steamy, _wet_ shower." Their luggage is piled neatly by the door, and she approaches it, extending the handle of her rolling suitcase, careful to bend at the waist. "Reckon this place has a decent hot-water heater? Might just take me a _long_ time t'get. . . clean."

By time she turns back to him, he's staring resolutely towards the ceiling, hands hidden in his pockets.

"Looney toon cat an' pigtails." His tone is flat, Rogue grins. "Looney toon cat, pigtails an'-"

"A lollipop?"

"Mon dieu!" A haggard sigh before he meets her eyes. "M gonna check th'defenses, th'exits. _You_ are gonna disappear b'hind a locked door an' come out sweet, innocent girl again."

Opens her mouth to retort, his comment just begging for something to do with the possibilities of corruption, even the title of Professor, but he cuts her off before she can make a sound.

"Non, no'a word." There's a _change_ to the air, and Rogue can't breathe for the intensity. The jacket slides from his shoulders to the floor, rustle of leather a counter point to her pounding heart. He circles her, slow, stalking. "If we ge'through t'night, I have an appointment wit'a priest, demain. An' après ca. . . ."

The kiss, when it comes, is searing. Bypasses every rational part of her brain to ignite a molten pool in the pit of her stomach. Lips and tongue and teeth and heat that communicate exactly how much he's been holding back. Boneless, breathless, she actually whimpers when he pulls away.

"M'takin' y'at y'r word."

Lord! Nothing in her own experience, nothing in the multitude of psyches within her mind compare or even prepare her for that kiss. If he can infuse a meeting of lips with that much. . . just _that much_, she has no idea how to anticipate what comes next. She had thought his holding her against the wall was hot. Thought their private time on the roof was hot. Thought those stolen moments in the labs. . . this was something else.

Eyes wide, lips parted, she can only nod. She isn't certain how she's standing, strength of her knees siphoned entirely. Isn't sure how she'll manage to walk to a bathroom for the mentioned shower when her legs are so much limp spaghetti.

Somehow, at his gentle nudge in the right direction, she does. Dazed, she even remembers to lock the door behind her. By time she's clean, hair towel dried enough not to drip over the sleepwear she changes into – cartoon cats and all – she's finally shaken the effect. Some deliberation before she decides not to bother with gloves, and exits in search of Remy.

She finds him in the kitchen off the main entrance, cigarette at his lips and two glasses of ice water on the table. He's found time to change himself, loose cotton pants and longsleeved tee. Isn't sure how to read the way he looks at her before he speaks.

"Master bedroom's got better locks. Door an' windows. Y'stayin' in there. Rest o'th'defences look decent. We should be safe enough f'tonight."

Rogue reaches for one of the waters, translating what he's said. Remy's 'decent' when it came to security systems was a far cry above most people's 'top notch'. Back at the mansion, he and Forge have slowly been reworking Xavier's systems. Both claimed that while 'best on the market' might sound impressive and be expensive, it was child's play compared to what the school could have. What good was it to have a Master Thief and Genius Inventor in residence if not to take advantage of their combined talents?

In truth, she had stopped paying too much attention to their plans when they started talking about getting customized tshirts to wear while working on the project.

He's still watching her, smoke when he exhales doing nothing to disguise the calculating appraisal in his eyes. Rogue sips at her water before responding.

"What, jammies not any better?"

"N'particularily." Lazy shrug, easy grin. "Chere, y'could be wearin' burlap an-"

Whatever direction he'd planned on going in after 'burlap' is interrupted by the front door crashing in. There's smoke, movement and noise, the change barely registering before Rogue finds herself caught between Remy's back and the kitchen counter, though where the hell he'd been hiding the collapsible bo staff she doesn't want to contemplate.

"Bonjour, mon mari. Did y' miss me?"

Emerging from the smoke, Rogue recognizes the blonde wearing what appears to be painted-on armor from Remy's own memories.

"Belladonna, dere's easier ways t'set up a meet." His tone is casual, but Remy doesn't drop his protective stance.

"C'est vrai, mais," She raises an arm, pointing something Rogue doesn't recognize in their direction. She can make an educated guess about the dart suddenly protruding from his shoulder when he slumps seconds later.

"Dis don't 'xactly concern you, cher."


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: This chapter clears up. . . nothing. Bwahaha. *grins* I am sorely tempted to spend the rest of my time off school focused on 'Melding' from here on out, and make you all wait until summer or something to find out what's going on. Sorely tempted. *rubs her hands together***

**Ownership is still lacking. Kinda like a heat source in my bedroom – just isn't happening.**

Maudit coliss tabernac. It's an act of goddamn _will_ not to follow her into the bathroom. Not start his inspection of locks and security with timing exactly how long it'll take him to join her under a spray of hot water. Naked.

After the annulment, she said. He wonders if starting a mental countdown would be as pathetic as he suspects. It has to be some sort of cosmic penance that he's involved with a woman who's a daily trail to be a better man than his history would indicate him capable of being. Someday, someone is going to explain this. Likely with sock puppets.

Muttering to himself, he explores the apartment. Henri's set them up well, the refrigerator and cupboards are even stocked. Suspects they'll both be grateful for the coffee available come morning. By time he hears the water stop from her shower, he's given grudging approval. They won't be as secure as say, staying at the family home, or even his own house. But both of those locations come with the additional risk of being predictable.

He changes quickly, stashing his bag and clothing in the living room – additional distance from where he's determined she'll be bedding down – and pads softly to the kitchen. Logan seemed to stress her water consumption, which, if nothing else, should help alleviate whatever hangover she's likely to encounter after some rest.

When Rogue joins him, he decides the pajamas aren't nearly as helpful as he'd hoped. She can call it purple all she wants, but the drawstring pants are decidedly pink, and sitting precariously low on her hips. The shirt's almost worse, sure, adorable black and white kitten, but the words 'I look Innocent' are scrawled across her breasts like a challenge.

"Master bedroom's got better locks. Door an' windows. Y'stayin' in there. Rest o'th'defences look decent. We should be safe enough f'tonight."

Easy enough to keep some physical distance between them. Not so easy to avoid imagining her throat working in entirely different circumstances when she takes long swallows of ice water.

"What, jammies not any better?"

"N'particularily." At least her question brings him back into the moment. "Chere, y'could be wearing burlap an-"

Best locks in the world won't keep a door closed if it goes boom – something he, of all people, should have thought of. He's reacting without thinking, roughly moving Rogue to stand behind him, using himself as a living shield between her and whatever threat coming in from where a door used to be.

"Bonjour, mon mari. Did y' miss me?"

He hasn't seen her in twelve years – since she tracked him to that bar in Tokyo with Logan – but some voices are never forgotten. Fingers tighten on his staff, shifts to hold it diagonal across his body.

"Belladonna, dere's easier ways t'set up a meet."

Shouldn't have brought Rogue here, shouldn't have got her involved. Knew it was a trap since the envelope was shoved under his door. Only thing he can cling to now is that if they somehow manage to hurt the girl behind him, he won't give Logan a chance to take vengeance.

He'll find a way to take enough of them down they'll kill him, pending war, prophecy, tentative truce be damned. If Rogue is hurt, the rest of it can go hang. Steadfastly, he ignores the voice in the deepest part of his mind reminding him that the girl is more than capable of taking care of herself. That he's relied on her ability to protect not only herself, but others, in the past.

"C'est vrai, mais," When she emerges from the entrance wreckage, Belladonna's wearing ceremonial Guild garb, which doesn't bode well. The braids are new. It isn't that he doesn't see the dart gun she lifts in his direction, but if he dodges, Rogue'll be hit.

"Dis don't 'xactly concern you, cher."

His first thought when tendrils of whatever's in the dart start through his bloodstream is that it isn't poison. Assassin poisons tend to be painful, and whatever's working through his system is cool, numbing. Wishes he could reassure Rogue that he's not dying.

She's supporting his weight, easing him to kitchen tile with a tenderness belied by the fierce growling that had to have come from her mentor. If she's picked that up permanently, he druggedly wonders which of his own characteristics have taken up residence inside of her.

"Wife or not, this here's a mistake yer gonna regret, Lady." Rogue systematically checks his pulse before launching herself at his wife.

For a moment, drugs starting to effect his thinking, thought processes, he fancies that the fight before him is between his future and his past.

Whatever else Remy Lebeau has become over the years, a core part of his personality has always been that he's a gambler. No one was surprised when he picked 'Gambit' as his codename.

Watching the two women tussle through glassy eyes, he can't help but calculate the odds of the match.

Rogue is part of the fetish-leather-clad X-men.

Belladonna is an assassin – one of the best.

Since she was a teenager, Rogue has trained to become part of a group of mutants who willingly place themselves in danger in order to save the world. A group of good guys who don't use lethal force.

If his own thief training ensured that he, Gambit, pulled his first heist at puberty, he's certain Belladonna bloodied her hands long before her monthly cycles started. Her entire life has been focused on how to track and put down a target.

Rogue's protectiveness of the few people she allows close is fierce. First hand, he's seen how far, and how dark that tendency can take her in the name of love.

Belladonna's sheer unrelenting drive to accomplish a goal is legendary among the guilds. She's yet to fail a contract, fall short of a purpose.

Rogue was trained by the Wolverine.

Belladonna is poised take over her guild's lead.

Remy is a betting man, and can calculate that odds on this fight would lean in Belle's favour. Years of living on instincts, a life time of depending on the outcome of a wager colour his mind before he slips into the cold welcoming deep of unconsciousness.

Rogue manages a throw, following her opponent into the hallway and beyond. Distantly, he can hear glass shatter, furniture breaking, Rogue swear and the thump of something going through a wall.

Remy bets on Rogue.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note: Er. *peers around* Um. Howdy?**

Rogue shakes her head, barely managing to twist just enough to dodge the incoming fist. Back of her skull throbs in a dull ache she knows will only intensify later. For now, pain is relegated to some place far away, a problem for then, not now.

Problems to deal with now involve the fact that this killer centerfold isn't exposing any skin other than her face, and Rogue can't get her own skin close enough to actually take advantage of that. Problems to deal with now involve a savage forearm to her throat that breaks up her breath and sends her head back into the damn drywall. Problems to deal with now involve the fact that whatever the hell the body-suit-come-armor is constructed of something that's slick and fluid and prevents Rogue from using any of the grappling techniques suggested by the close contact.

Solutions for now include extensive reliance on multiple absorbed psyches for adequate epithets to express herself. Solutions for now start with a precisely placed knee to her attacker's ribcage, followed closely by using the slippery nature of the suit to bring her bare foot down hard into her opponents knee, pressure in the wrong direction. In another fight, it would be a crippling move, here, it buys her precious seconds to roll against the wall and away.

"Bien, y'better den y'look, lil'girl." Belladonna, the ex, the damn ex-wife hasn't aged badly as Rogue hoped. And no matter what the reality might be, in Rogue's mind she's definitely an ex - if not legally by time this trip is over, than because Remy'll find himself a widower before they leave town. "Was worried y'might be just 'nother pretty bauble."

"Shucks, y'think ah'm pretty?" The words are stuttered, broken as they are by the need to launch herself to the side and away from a yellow bolt of energy that leaves a smoking crater in the wooden floorboards where Rogue had been standing. Just her luck the damn ex would be a damn mutant. Though, somewhere in her mind that's not concentrating on the defensive, it's interesting to note that none of her absorbed memories from Rem about this woman include an energy mutation.

This time she's better prepared when the blonde comes at her and doesn't try to find purchase on the slick armor. Sways to avoid the kick aimed towards her midsection, using the momentum to step around the follow-up punch. From behind, it's almost easy to grab a fistful of tightly bound yellow braids and pull towards herself while she plants a foot in her opponent's lower back.

Hand still knotted in the woman's hair, she uses the moment of surprise and pain that means a lack of resistance from Belladonna to guide her head, face first, into a wall not far from where the base of her own skull had punctured drywall. Pulling her out of the hole, and feeling only slightly vindicated, Rogue firmly places a spread fingered hand over her face, loosening all her controls and _pulling_ as hard as she can. The first wave she receives is pain – enough that her grip loosens, gentles. Under that. . . satisfaction, pride, relief.

Rogue stumbles back, letting Belladonna's unconscious form drop gracelessly to the floor. She ought to restrain the other woman, she won't be out for long. Instead, she's certain the threat's over and examines the information she drained with growing incredulity.

"A test? Alla this just ta. . ."

"Protect de guilds." The assassin's voice is thick, and she coughs before speaking again, not bothering to sit up. Which is just as well, Rogue's uncertain if she'd be able to resist attacking if the other woman made such an obvious movement. Doesn't matter if the dart only held tranqs, she's still pissed, adrenaline keeping her wary. "Even in exile, 'e's still de heir."

Blue eyes hold an appraising calculation that make Rogue snarl in response. Unconsciously, her fists clench at her sides, quickly enveloping in yellow, ozone scented energy.

"So it's true den, you take from dose y'touch. Information too? Or jist m'powers?" Belledonna slides slowly to rest her weight on her elbows, long legs extended before her. "Bien, y'knew it was a test, information too. Useful. Fittin, for a thief's woman." Shakes her head and stops abruptly. "An' it packs a wallop girl, dieu, feels like a hangover wit'out the fun before hand. Not 'xactly subtle."

"Gotta agree with Rems on this one, theres easier ways to find out 'bout meh." It takes more concentration then she'd like to unclench her fists, but the energy dissipates as she does, which makes her feel a little more in control of herself. "Like askin."

A shrug in response before the woman pulls herself into a full sitting position, legs folded beneath her and hands out in what could be a placating gesture. Could be, if Rogue didn't have first hand knowledge right now on how easy that hands out posture could fire another bolt of energy.

"Would ya 'ave answered?" Raised eyebrows and false brightness to her tone. "Allo! M'ya boyfriend's wife, jist wonderin', you strong enough t'void bein' used in a coup 'gainst the guilds? Or ya gonna be a handicap t'th'future leader o'the thiefs?"

"Put like that. . ." Crosses her arms over her chest and pulls on her best imitation of Logan's 'I'm not laughin, bub' expression. "But what does it matter? Rems' under exile, cain't rightly rule a guild from outta town."

"Mais, we annulled? Remy ain't no kinslayer, which'd mean dere's no reason f'th'exile." Mention of the annulment makes Rogue uneasy again, suspiscious of the timing about this whole thing. Something must show on her face, because Belladonna sighs, rolls to her feet and steps easily to the surprisingly intact bar along a wall not potmarked with new holes.

"Ecoutez, jolie. M'in m'thirties by now, technically married to a man ain't rightly seen in over a decade. Ain' old, but m'an'assassin, no'a thief. M'life won' be extended. Be nice t'chose an actual mate, no'this sham o'a partnership." She selects a bottle of what looks like fairly good quality whiskey and takes a swig before continuing. "An m'spies tell m'bout toi. Longest dat man's stayed wit'one woman since he lef'town. So long's I kin prove ya're capable o'takin care of bot'yeself an dat fool? At least willin?"

Shocked numb by where the conversation's going, Rogue takes the bottle when it's offered. Grateful for the chance to take a swig before Belle finishes the thought out loud.

"If'n ya kin prove me a worthy consort t'the thief's heir, ya'll free to choose one yourownself."

"Ouis," Blue eyes sparkling, "An chere? Y'passed wit' flyin colours."


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: This is. . . more difficult than I remember. Thank you, everyone, for sticking with me.**

Mouth tastes like antiseptic and rot, side effect to one of the few tranquilizers that actually _work_ since his mutation manifested. Also a side effect is that coming back to consciousness is a slow, piecemeal affair. His senses come back online in a disjointed, uncoordinated mess. Too much practice with the experience allow him to keep his breath even and not give outward sign of waking until he's sure of his body's response.

Surroundings are quiet, no evidence of the fight that lulled him into oblivion. Spatial awareness is fuzzy, unnerving and disorienting when he's accustomed to knowing where everything is without concentrating. If Rogue won, she'd be here, beside him, wouldn't she? If Belle won. . .

He can sense enough to know the room he's in is devoid of further human presence, and not the kitchen he lasts remembers. No, the surface he's heaped rather uncomfortably on isn't unforgiving linoleum, but a firm mattress. High thread count sheets. Takes the risk and his eyes open, confirming the room to be the bedroom he'd not too long ago decided Rogue would be occupying for the night. Flexes the fingers on both hands, determines maybe his muscle control is enough to consider standing.

There's a brief wave of dizziness when he does, but he rides it out, senses sharpening. Door's open, and he's in control enough to ghost through it, into the hallway and down the stairs. From the entrance – front door's propped in an approximation of where it belongs – he can hear voices. Too soft to make out individual words, but the tone is confusing for what he remembers of the situation. Close to the wall, creeps down the hall towards the source, scattered glass and. . .

"He's got a mole where?"

"Chile – y'either blind as a bat or 'aven't seen 'im in th'altogether. Thing's plain as day, even in candle light." That sounds suspiciously like. . . girl talk. "Never thou'I'd live t'see th'day dat one stuck wit'a girl f'r months on en' and no –"

"Wh'th'hell?" It's got to be a hallucination. Belle and Rogue sit cross legged on the floor of the living room, open bottle between them and recently topped shot glasses in hand. The room, at least, tells him the confrontation he last witnessed. Furniture overturned if not outright broken, a portion of the hard wooden floor is cracked, blackened. Both women do a decent job of ignoring his appearing in the doorway, but Rogue downs her shot quickly, action not quite hiding a smirk.

"Thought ya said we ort t'have 'nother hour or so 'fore he woke up."

"Ain't 'xactly precise," Belle shrugs, pours another shot. "Findin' anythin' t'knock him out's tricky business. Metabolizes most sedatives too quick, an a couple do 'im serious damage. Drink up. He'll start yellin' soon."

"Nah, these days he tends t'get _sarcastic_ at meh first."

It's surreal, he wants to believe it's a hallucination. It'd be kinder.

"Reality check, mes filles, y'two were tryin' t'kill each other when dis one wen'unner?"

"Kill's kinda harsh there, Rem. And a little bad taste in word choice considerin' her occupation." Rogue leans back, casually resting weight on hands planted behind her, but still avoids looking in his direction. "Ah mean, here ah am, obviously breathin. Almost think he doesn't have faith in ya'll's ability."

It's Belle who takes pity on him first – Belle, who last time he physically saw her was actively attempting to end his life. Or at least do his person some serious damage. Remy leans in the door frame, uncertain about his equilibrium even if the room's long since stopped spinning.

"Lot's been changin', diable. Figure it's 'bout time we change 'long wit'it." Gestures with her glass to encompass both the destruction of the room and the doorway behind him. "Wouldn'ta had't cause such a mess ici, if y'coulda kept y'damn nose outta thin's at th'bar. But non,"

"Ya'll shoulda known better with that one. That protective streak o'his cain't be somethin' new."

"C'est vrai, he's a regular gentleman t'ief. Good f'you. Even better, it's somethin' y'share wit'him." Gingerly runs fingers over her own jaw. "Which's bein pour moi."

"An some thin's ain't changed, Belle. Still killed Julian, still exiled, still married an' still left." The door frame feels real, feels solid against his shoulder and hip. He needs to hold on to that. A deck of cards would give him something to fidget with, but the pajamas he's still wearing weren't the pocket sort, and he's not sure either woman would have left them on him when transferring him upstairs if they had been. "How's 'bout y'tell m'wha'is different."

"Hated ya f'mon frère, won' lie. But den. . . five years back? We started t'find somma his safe houses." She stares at the glass in her hand, but her voice when she speaks again holds a frightening amount of detatchment. "One t'ing t'enjoy a job well done in dis line o'work. Another t'enjoy it de way dose houses showed. Far's we been able t'figure, all the bodies were blonde an female."

Jesu. That's. . . that's more than he'd anticipated. Closes his eyes against the possibilities in that information. "He always had a t'ing f'you, brother or non."

"Je le sais." She takes the shot, pours another. "Pere's since been heard t'say, in public even, dat 'is killer did a service t'th'guild. If he weren't y'kin at de time. . .an I kin make dat happen, retroactive."

His bark of laughter is bitter, resentful.

"Rem, ya need t'listen." Her voice is quiet, subdued. He's almost forgotten she was in the room, but the green eyes that meet his are serious, intent.

"Why now?" Pushes away from the comfort of the door frame to finally enter the room. Belle glides effortlessly to her feet, as does Rogue. "Could'a offered dis any time since y'found out 'bout him. Why now?"

"Th'guild're changin. Back den, only thin' I could do t'help wit'de peace was marry a t'ief. But pere est mal, an wit'out Julien, m'his only child. F'de firs'time Remy, a woman's 'bout t'take over de guild. A woman qualifies, not jus'blood but ability."

"Dere's some won'like dat." Never mind their Benefactress is a definite _ess_, there's a patriarchy to the guilds that hasn't moved with the rest of the world in terms of relative feminine power. "Dere'll be fratctions 'gainst ya."

"Ouis. Need de t'ieves nice an stable if m'gonna pull it off. Or least distracted 'nough not t'come after us when we're weak." Nods in Rogue's direction. "So I had t'know if she'd cripple y'if y'were free t'declare her. She won'."

"Might cripple those that try." Remy doesn't consider why Rogue has his smokes, but is grateful when she hands them over. "Ain't sayin' ah like th'gal's methods, but she's managed t'convince meh o'her reasons."

"Why no'jus ask the Benafactress f'her support? Y'were always her favourite." A quick charge and the nicotine gives him something to focus on other than the information swimming in his head.

"We ain't sure." Belle looks away, shadow crossing her features. "Ain't seen her since las' solstice, an she didn' look good den."

"Solstice? But de offerin' shoulda been jus' a month ago."

"She didn' show, Remy. No one's seen her. No one's heard from her. Some say she's taken sick, others that she's abandoned us. Some o'm'folk are worried it'll be pinned on me." Uneasy shrug. "M'th'las one she blessed."

Which explains the scorched floor. Unknown, part mythos part real, the Benefactress is something of a patron saint to both the thieves and the assassins. Unlike the saints at the cathedral, this one is flesh and blood, attends solstice and equinox gatherings. Honourary godparent to each child born of the guild, and once a year takes tribute from members. Even Remy, even exiled, sends a portion of his take back in time for the tribute each year. Especially favoured members were blessed – granted abilities or extended life spans in return for exemplary service.

Remy wasn't one of the favoured. Belle, apparently, is. Wishes that was a surprise.

"Thin's are changing."

"Ouis, an's'bout time. What d'ya say? We end dis, an y'keep de t'ieves in line till I kin get solidified."

"An'then, Rem, th'two o'ya'll kin write a peace that's more becomin' t'th'twenty-first centuary."


	24. Chapter 24

**Arthur's Note: I've actually been sitting on this one for. . uh. . . a couple years. Sigh. Mostly. Some edits. Still. I'm trying for two a week, ok? Alright. **

Bobby manages to snag the phone before Kitty, earning the kind of crossed armed glare and foot tap only a teenage girl can deliver. Grinning, he repeats the trained greeting.

"Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters, Bobby speaking, can I help you?"

"Bobby! I am so waiting on a call!"

"Bobby?"

"Rogue?" Waving a distracted hand in Kitty's direction, indicating as best he can that this isn't the call she's waiting on and she can now kindly phase somewhere else, Bobby's grin breaks into a full smile. "How's New Orleans? Tried a Hurricane yet?"

"It's. . . interestin'." Repressed laughter on the other line. "An' I ain't old 'nuff t'drink."

"Unhuh. You're with Gambit, so I'm sure you're obeying all laws and city ordinances." His eye roll can be heard through the phone line, he's sure.

"Ain' old nuff, Bobby, an' that's all m'sayin on the matter." Huff of breath, but Bobby knows Rogue's never been a good liar. She tends to rely on misdirection than straight untruths. "How's everyone at th'school?"

"Everyone's good, things here are pretty quiet. And you totally did – I bet you got wasted and started flashing people on Bourbon Street – you'd better bring me some beads!"

"Bobby Drake, I never!" She's trying for outraged shock, but what he hears through the phone line is poorly hidden laughter.

Bobby leaves the kitchen, cordless phone against his head and starts wandering towards the garage. Much fun as it is to talk with her himself, he knows who she'll ask for soon enough.

"At least bring me a mask, alright? Can't run off to New Orleans without bringing back either beads or masks."

"This ain't exactly a pleasure jaunt, Bobby." A murmured, accented male voice in the background, which Rogue appears to be ignoring. "But I'll see what I kin come up with."

He's made it to the entrance of the garage, can see Logan working on one of the motorcycles, but pauses, biting his lip before retreating a few steps, out of super sensitive hearing range.

"Hey Rogue? I know you want to talk to Logan, but is Gambit around? Just for a minute?"

The beat of silence on the other end is unnerving. Bobby wishes he'd kept his mouth shut, and is about to tell her to forget it when she finally answers.

"Judgin' by th' look on his face, I don't wanna know what y'all're up to. Just make sure I talk t'Logan when you're through. Bye, Bobby."

"Thanks, Rogue."

Muffled sounds, and what Bobby thinks is a 'merci, chere' before the aggravating and nightly mocking Cajun voice is on the phone.

"An' wha're y'wantin, mon ami?"

"I'm stuck." Bobby takes a deep breath, checks the hallway and mentally calculates one more time that he's out of Logan's hearing range. "I can get through the maze alright in the dark. But there's this locked door on my way back out."

"Y'got th'far already? C'est bien." More muffled background talk before Remy's attention returns. "D'accord, what've y'tried?"

Bobby fidgets, but then, Gambit set up the sim, right? He can't get in trouble for breaking rules from the man who set up the situation to break rules, right? Yeah, maybe.

"Tried opening it, obviously didn't work. Tried looking for a route around it, but all the other paths close up when I get to the door." His voice drops, defeated, before he continues. "Tried freezing and smashing it, but the sim shut down entirely."

A sharp bark of laughter echoes through the phone, and Bobby's face heats. He was trying, dammit. Figured out the timing and the wardrobe before even starting, that first night.

"Y'gotta pick th' lock, fou."

"Pick the lock? How am I supposed to pick the lock?"

"Gen'rlly, wit'a set o'lock picks." There's still amusement in that voice, and a part of Bobby wants to hit the man. "O'ter equipment can work, but f'r now, let's keep't basic."

Slumping against a wall, Bobby creates a ball of ice in his free hand, fidgeting with it to keep his voice calm.

"And I can just go into town, walk into 'Thieves R Us' at the mall and pick out my own set, right?"

"Could try, don't t'ink dey'd be in th' directory – or y'can grab th' extra set in m'room."

"Your room?" There's a whole range of possibilities in that idea. "Where in your room?"

"Ah, c'est le problem, oui? T'ink o'it as anot'er test."

"You're just as obnoxious in person as your hologram." Bobby grumbles.

"C'est part o'm'charm."

"You call that charming?"

Bobby can hear the smirk across the phone line, hear the careless shrug before the man speaks.

"Y'ex seems t't'ink so."

There's a thump, an exclamation, and the other phone clatters. Muffled noises and scolding southern voices before the phone's picked up again. By then, Bobby's grinning.

"Sorry 'bout that Bobby. Some people don't understand how t'act like civilized people."

He's not sure, but in the background, Bobby thinks he hears a rather dirty retort to Rogue's apology. He turns back to the garage, heading towards Logan and the ever-more-customized bike. Mr. Summer's was bad enough, but somehow Forge had been involved in some of the additions to this one. The positive side is that Logan has largely stopped trying to steal the first one.

"S'alright, Rogue. He's right, you are my ex and you do find him charming. Personally, I think the whole Sinister thing traumatized your brain or something, but, hey, there's no accounting for taste, right?"

"Bobby. . ." He has to laugh at her exasperation. "We cain't all fall madly f'a baseline."

"Hey, Opal's good people, and at least she's my own age."

Logan's attention focuses on him, a this-better-be-good scowl for the disruption. Exaggerating, he mouths the caller's name, and the man's face softens, hints of a smile tugging his mouth.

"Don't worry about it, here's Logan. Remember, beads or a mask!"

Handing off the phone, Bobby doesn't wait for her response. Nearly at the door, he does hear Logan's.

"If it's beads, you tell that Cajun I want to see a receipt where you bought them in a store, kid."


End file.
